LITERARY 
MASTERPIECES 


tJV 


?/? 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


DEPARTMENT  OF  EDUCATION 


GIFT   OF  THE   PUBLISHER 
No.  fS^  ,  Received 


LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT    OF 


Class 


LITERARY  MASTERPIECES 


FRANKLIN:  IRVING:  BRYANT:  WEBSTER:  EVERETT 

LONGFELLOW:   HAWTHORNE:   WHITTIER 

EMERSON:  HOLMES:  LOWELL:  POE 

HENRY:  WIRT :  JOHNSON 

TIMROD:  LANIER 

TABB 


WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 
AND  PORTRAITS 


BOSTON,   NEW  YORK,   AND   CHICAGO 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
fltoetfibe  pre#,  Cambri&ge 


COPYRIGHT    1891,    1904   BY   HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   &    CO. 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PKEFACE. 


THIS  book  is  a  modified  form  of  "  Masterpieces  of 
American  Literature."  The  changes  consist  of  a  few 
additions  and  of  omissions  enough  to  bring  the  book 
within  the  range  of  a  reader  for  the  upper  grammar 
grades.  Among  the  things  omitted  are  a  few  master 
pieces  of  a  local  character  which  had  been  called  for  by 
the  Boston  Supervisors,  for  whom  the  "  Masterpieces 
of  American  Literature  "  had  been  especially  prepared 
as  a  grammar  school  text-book  in  reading.  The 
additions  include  material  from  Southern  authors 
acceptable  to  the  Virginia  State  Board  of  Education, 
which  has  placed  the  book  on  its  list  of  authorized 
readers. 

The  following,  from  the  preface  of  "  Masterpieces  of 
American  Literature,"  applies  equally  well  to  both 
books :  — 

"  The  considerations  that  guided  in  the  make-up  of 
the  book  were  that  the  various  authors  should  be 
represented  by  characteristic  and  noted  productions ; 
that  these  productions  should  be  within  the  reach  of 
grammar  school  children ;  that  they  should  be  in 
spiring  and  uplifting  in  their  influence  upon  life  and 

221835 


iv  PREFACE. 

character,  and  fitted  to  serve  the  great  purpose  of 
developing  a  sense  of  what  real  literature  is,  both  in 
form  and  in  spirit. 

"  While  holding  to  these  considerations,  it  was  also 
kept  in  mind  that  the  book  must  be  a  reading-book, 
in  the  school  sense.  It  is  to  be  used  for  improvement 
in  the  art  of  oral  reading  as  well  as  for  studies  in 
literature.  Therefore,  a  variety  of  styles  in  both 
prose  and  poetry  is  needed.  This  will  explain  why, 
in  some  instances,  a  particular  selection  is  made  from 
an  author  rather  than  some  other  selection.  The 
more  mechanical  part  of  oral  reading  —  the  devel 
opment  and  management  of  the  voice,  the  rendering 
flexible  the  organs  of  speech  and  securing  precision 
in  their  action  —  may  receive  due  attention  without 
much  regard  to  the  meaning  of  the  exercises  used  in 
practice.  But  to  gain  the  ability  to  read  well  orally 
—  to  convey  exact  thought  and  quicken  feeling  by  the 
utterance,  in  appropriate  tones,  of  what  another  has 
written  —  requires  extended  practice  upon  pieces  rich 
in  thought  and  various  in  style  and  sentiment. 

"The  brief  biographical  sketches  of  the  authors 
represented  here,  while  helpful  for  the  information 
which  they  contain,  will,  it  is  hoped,  inspire  the 
reader  to  a  further  study  of  the  authors  and  their 
works." 

The  selections  from  the  following  named  authors 
are  used  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with, 
the  authorized  publishers  of  their  works  :  — 


PREFACE.  v 

WASHINGTON  IRVING,  .     .  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

W.  C.  BRYANT,   ....  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

E.  A.  POE, Messrs.  Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER  and 

EDWARD  EVERETT,  .    .    .  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

HENRY  TIMROD,        .    .    .  Messrs.  B.  F.  Johnson  &  Co. 

SIDNEY  LANIER,       .     .     .  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

JOHN  B.  TABB,     ....  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 

The  poems  by  John  B.  Tabb  are  from  the  volumes  entitled 
"Poems,"  "Lyrics,"  and  "Child  Verse." 

April,  1904. 


CONTENTS. 


IRVING.  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 1 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE 7 

BRYANT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 33 

THANATOPSIS 37 

To  A  WATERFOWL 39 

FRANKLIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 41 

POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC 46 

HOLMES. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 61 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL  BATTLE     .       .    64 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 76 

OLD  IRONSIDES 77 

HAWTHORNE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 79 

THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 84 

MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA 109 

WHITTIER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH      ........  119 

SNOW-BOUND 122 

THE  SHIP-BUILDERS 148 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE .151 

LOWELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 153 

THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 157 

EMERSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 171 

BEHAVIOR 174 

THE  RHODORA 195 

FABLE  .  .       .  195 


vin  CONTENTS. 

WEBSTER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 197 

ADDRESS  DELIVERED  AT  THE  LAYING  OF  THE  CORNER 
STONE  OF  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT  AT  CHARLESTOWN, 

MASS.,  JUNE  17,  1825 201 

EVERETT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 231 

FROM  "  THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON  "         .       .        .235 
LONGFELLOW. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 247 

EVANGELINE 250 

FOE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  .       .      •,      ••.       .       .       .       .     347 

THE  RAVEN 351 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 360 

HENRY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH .389 

SPEECH  OF  MARCH  23,  1775    .....  .395 

WIRT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH .  401 

THE  OLD  BLIND  PREACHER  .       .       .       .       »       .       .     406 

JOHNSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH      .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .413 

TRIBUTE  TO  ROBERT  E.  LEE        .       .       ...       .416 

THREE  SOUTHERN  POETS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 423 

TIMROD. 

SPRING  .       .       .       . 426 

LANIER. 

SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 428 

TABB. 

CLOVER 430 

FERN  SONG 431 

A  LAMENT 431 

EVOLUTION 432 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY      .......     432 

AN  INTERVIEW 433 

A  LEGACY 433 

LANIER'S  FLUTE    .  .  433 


LITERARY   MASTERPIECES. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

IRVING  may  be  named  as  the  first  author  in  the  United 
States  whose  writings  made  a  place  for  themselves  in  gen 
eral  literature.  Franklin,  indeed,  had  preceded  him  with 
his  autobiography,  but  Franklin  belongs  rather  to  the  cola, 
nial  period.  It  was  under  the  influences  of  that  time  that 
his  mind  and  taste  were  formed,  and  there  was  a  marked 
difference  between  the  Boston  and  Philadelphia  of  Frank 
lin's  youth  and  the  New  York  of  Irving's  time.  Politics, 
commerce,  and  the  rise  of  industries  were  rapidly  changing 
social  relations  and  manners,  while  the  country  was  still 
dependent  on  England  for  its  higher  literature.  It  had 
hardly  begun  to  find  materials  for  literature  in  its  own  past 
or  in  its  aspects  of  nature,  yet  there  was  a  very  positive  ele 
ment  in  life  which  resented  foreign  interference.  There 
were  thus  two  currents  crossing  each  other  •  the  common  life 
which  was  narrowly  American,  and  the  cultivated  taste 
which  was  English,  or  imitative  of  England.  Irving's  first 
ventures,  in  company  with  his  brothers  and  Paulding,  were 
in  the  attempt  to  represent  New  York  in  literature  upon  the 
model  of  contemporary  or  recent  presentations  of  London. 
"  The  town  "  in  the  minds  of  these  young  writers  was  that 
portion  of  New  York  society  which  might  be  construed  into 
a  miniature  reflection  of  London  wit  and  amusement.  His 
associates  never  advanced  beyond  this  stage,  but  with  Wash 
ington  Irving  the  sketches  which  he  wrote  under  the  signa- 


2  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

ture  of  Jonathan  Old  Style  and  in  the  medley  of  Sal 
magundi  were  only  the  first  experiments  of  a  mind  capa 
ble  of  larger  things.  After  five  or  six  years  of  trifling 
with  his  pen,  he  wrote  and  published,  in  1809,  A  History 
of  New  York,  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  which  he  be 
gan  in  company  with  his  brother  Peter  as  a  mere  jeu  d'es- 
prit,  but  turned  into  a  more  determined  work  of  humor,  as 
the  capabilities  of  the  subject  disclosed  themselves.  Grave 
historians  had  paid  little  attention  to  the  record  of  New 
York  under  the  Dutch ;  Irving,  who  saw  the  humorous 
contrast  between  the  traditional  Dutch  society  of  his  day 
and  the  pushing  new  democracy,  seized  upon  the  early 
history  and  made  it  the  occasion  for  a  good-natured 
burlesque.  He  shocked  the  old  families  about  him,  but  he 
amused  everybody  else,  and  the  book,  going  to  England, 
made  his  name  at  once  known  to  those  who  had  the  making 
there  of  literary  reputations. 

Irving  himself  was  born  of  a  Scottish  father  and  English 
mother,  who  had  come  to  this  country  only  twenty  years 
before.  He  was  but  little  removed,  therefore,  from  the  tra 
ditions  of  Great  Britain,  and  his  brothers  and  he  carried  on  a 
trading  business  with  the  old  country.  His  own  tastes  were 
not  mercantile,  and  he  was  only  silent  partner  in  the  house ; 
he  wrote  occasionally  and  was  for  a  time  the  editor  of  a  mag 
azine,  but  his  pleasure  was  chiefly  in  travel,  good  literature, 
and  good  society.  It  was  while  he  was  in  England,  in  1818, 
that  the  house  in  which  he  was  a  partner  failed,  and  he  was 
thrown  on  his  own  resources.  Necessity  gave  the  slight  spur 
which  was  wanting  to  his  inclination,  and  he  began  with 
deliberation  the  career  of  an  author.  He  had  found  himself 
at  home  in  England.  His  family  origin  and  his  taste  for 
the  best  literature  had  made  him  English  in  his  sympathies 
and  tastes,  and  his  residence  and  travels  there,  the  society 
which  he  entered  and  the  friends  he  made,  confirmed  him  in 
English  habits.  Nevertheless  he  was  sturdily  American  in 
his  principles ;  he  was  strongly  attached  to  New  York  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  3 

his  American  friends,  and  was  always  a  looker-on  in  Eng 
land.  His  foreign  birth  and  education  gave  him  significant 
advantages  as  an  observer  of  English  life,  and  he  at  once 
began  the  writing  of  those  papers,  stories,  and  sketches 
which  appeared  in  the  separate  numbers  of  The  Sketch 
Book,  in  Bracebridge  Hall,  and  in  Tales  of  a  Traveller. 
They  were  chiefly  drawn  from  material  accumulated  abroad, 
but  an  occasional  American  subject  was  taken.  Irving  in 
stinctively  felt  that  by  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  the 
bent  of  his  genius  he  could  pursue  his  calling  more  safely 
abroad  than  at  home.  He  remained  in  Europe  seventeen 
years,  sending  home  his  books  for  publication,  and  securing 
also  the  profitable  results  of  publication  in  London.  During 
that  time,  besides  the  books  above  named,  he  wrote  the 
History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus  ; 
the  Voyages  and  Discoveries  of  the  Companions  of  Colum 
bus  ;  A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada  ;  and  The 
Alhambra.  The  Spanish  material  was  obtained  while 
residing  in  Spain,  whither  he  went  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
American  minister  to  make  translations  of  documents  relat 
ing  to  the  voyages  of  Columbus  which  had  recently  been 
collected.  Irving's  training  and  tastes  led  him  rather  into 
the  construction  of  popular  narrative  than  into  the  work  of  a 
scientific  historian,  and,  with  his  strong  American  affections, 
he  was  quick  to  see  the  interest  and  value  which  lay  in  the 
history  of  Spain  as  connected  with  America.  He  was  emi 
nently  a  raconteur,  very  skilful  and  graceful  in  the  shaping 
of  old  material ;  his  humor  played  freely  over  the  surface  of 
his  writing,  and,  with  little  power  to  create  characters  or 
plots,  he  had  an  unfailing  perception  of  the  literary  capabil 
ities  of  scenes  and  persons  which  came  under  his  observation. 
He  came  back  to  America  in  1832  with  an  established 
reputation,  and  was  welcomed  enthusiastically  by  his  friends 
and  countrymen.  He  travelled  into  the  new  parts  of  Amer 
ica,  and  spent  ten  years  at  home,  industriously  working  at 
the  material  which  had  accumulated  in  his  hands  when 


4  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

abroad,  and  had  been  increased  during  his  travels  in  the 
West.  In  this  period  he  published  Legends  of  the  Con 
quest  of  Spain ;  The  Crayon  Miscellany,  including  his 
Tour  on  the  Prairies,  Abbotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey  ; 
Astoria  ;  a  number  of  papers  in  the  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine,  afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  Wolferfs 
Roost ;  and  edited  the  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville, 
U.  S.  A.,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  Far  West. 

In  1842  he  went  back  to  Spain  as  American  minister, 
holding  the  office  for  four  years,  when  he  returned  to  Amer 
ica,  established  himself  at  his  home,  Sunnyside  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson,  and  remained  there  until  his  death  in  1859. 
The  fruits  of  this  final  period  were  Mahomet  and  his  Suc 
cessors,  which,  with  a  volume  of  posthumous  publication, 
Spanish  Papers  and  other  Miscellanies,  completed  the 
series  of  Spanish  and  Moorish  subjects  which  form  a  distinct 
part  of  his  writings ;  Oliver  Goldsmith,  a  Biography  ;  and 
finally  a  Life  of  Washington,  which  occupied  the  closing 
years  of  his  life,  —  years  which  were  not  free  from  physical 
suffering.  In  this  book  Irving  embodied  his  strong  admira 
tion  for  the  subject,  whose  name  he  bore  and  whose  blessing 
he  had  received  as  a  child ;  he  employed,  too,  a  pen  which  had 
been  trained  by  its  labors  on  the  Spanish  material,  and,  like 
that  series,  the  work  is  marked  by  good  taste,  artistic  sense 
of  proportion,  faithfulness,  and  candor,  rather  than  by  the 
severer  work  of  the  historian.  It  is  a  popular  and  a  fair 
life  of  Washington  and  account  of  the  war  for  independence. 

Irving's  personal  and  literary  history  is  recorded  in  The 
Life  and  Letters  of  Washington  Irving,  by  his  nephew, 
Pierre  M.  Irving.  His  death  was  the  occasion  of  many 
affectionate  and  graceful  eulogies  and  addresses,  a  number 
of  which  were  gathered  into  Irvingiana :  a  Memorial  of 
Washington  Irving. 

Rip  Van  Winkle  is  from  The  Sketch  Book. 

Washington  Irving  was  born  in  New  York  April  3, 1783, 
and  died  at  Sunnyside  on  the  Hudson,  November  28, 1859. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

THE  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  purported  to  have  been 
written  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  who  was  a  humorous  in 
vention  of  Irving's,  and  whose  name  was  familiar  to  the  pub 
lic  as  the  author  of  A  History  of  New  York.  The  History 
was  published  in  1809,  but  it  was  ten  years  more  before 
the  first  number  of  The  Sketch  Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon, 
Gent.,  was  published.  This  number,  which  contained  Hip 
Van  Winkle,  was,  like  succeeding  numbers,  written  by  Ir 
ving  in  England  and  sent  home  to  America  for  publication. 
He  laid  the  scene  of  the  story  in  the  Kaatskills,  but  he  drew 
upon  his  imagination  and  the  reports  of  others  for  the  scen 
ery,  not  visiting  the  spot  until  1833.  The  story  is  not  ab 
solutely  new  ;  the  fairy  tale  of  The  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the 
Wood  has  the  same  theme  ;  so  has  the  story  of  Epimenides 
of  Crete,  who  lived  in  the  sixth  or  seventh  century  before 
Christ.  He  was  said  to  have  fallen  asleep  in  a  cave  when 
a  boy,  and  to  have  awaked  at  the  end  of  fifty-seven  years, 
his  soul,  meanwhile,  having  been  growing  in  stature.  There 
is  the  legend  also  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephesus,  Chris 
tian  martyrs  who  were  walled  into  a  cave  to  which  they  had 
fled  for  refuge,  and  there  were  miraculously  preserved  for 
two  centuries.  Among  the  stories  in  which  the  Harz  Moun 
tains  of  Germany  are  so  prolific  is  one  of  Peter  Klaus,  a 
goatherd  who  was  accosted  one  day  by  a  young  man  who 
silently  beckoned  him  to  follow,  and  led  him  to  a  secluded 
spot,  where  he  found  twelve  knights  playing,  voiceless,  at 
skittles.  He  saw  a  can  of  wine  which  was  very  fragrant, 
and,  drinking  of  it,  was  thrown  into  a  deep  sleep,  from 
which  he  did  not  wake  for  twenty  years.  The  story  gives 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

incidents  of  his  awaking  and  of  the  changes  which  he  found 
in  the  village  to  which  he  returned.  This  story,  which  was 
published  with  others  in  1800,  may  very  likely  have  been 
the  immediate  suggestion  to  Irving,  who  has  taken  nearly 
the  same  framework.  The  humorous  additions  which  he 
has  made,  and  the  grace  with  which  he  has  invested  the 
tale,  have  caused  his  story  to  supplant  earlier  ones  in  the 
popular  mind,  so  that  Rip  Van  Winkle  has  passed  into 
familiar  speech,  and  allusions  to  him  are  clearly  understood 
by  thousands  who  have  never  read  Irving's  story.  The 
recent  dramatizing  of  the  story,  though  following  the  out 
line  only,  has  done  much  to  fix  the  conception  of  the  char 
acter.  The  story  appeals  very  directly  to  a  common  senti 
ment  of  curiosity  as  to  the  future,  which  is  not  far  removed 
from  what  some  have  regarded  as  an  instinct  of  the  human 
mind  pointing  to  personal  immortality.  The  name  Van 
Winkle  was  happily  chosen  by  Irving,  but  not  invented  by 
him.  The  printer  of  the  Sketch  Book,  for  one,  bore  the 
name.  The  name  Knickerbocker,  also,  is  among  the  Dutch 
names,  but  Irving's  use  of  it  has  made  it  representative.  In 
The  Author's  Apology,  which  he  prefixed  to  a  new  edition 
of  the  History  of  New  York,  he  says  :  "I  find  its  very 
name  become  a  *  household  word,'  and  used  to  give  the 
home  stamp  to  everything  recommended  for  popular  accep 
tation,  such  as  Knickerbocker  societies  ;  Knickerbocker  in 
surance  companies  ;  Knickerbocker  steamboats  ;  Knicker 
bocker  omnibuses,  Knickerbocker  bread,  and  Knickerbocker 
ice  ;  and  .  .  .  New  Yorkers  of  Dutch  descent  priding  them 
selves  upon  being  'genuine  Knickerbockers.'" 


RIP  VAN   WINKLE. 

A   POSTHUMOUS    WRITING   OF   DIEDBICH    KNICKERBOCKER. 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday. 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre.  CABTWBIGHT.* 

THE  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who 
was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the 
manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  his 
torical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books 
as  among  men  ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his 
favorite  topics  ;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still 
more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore  so  invaluable  to 
true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine 
Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse  under 
a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  vol 
ume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province 
during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published 
some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the 
literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a 
whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous 
accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appear 
ance,  but  has  since  been  completely  established ;  and  it  is  now 
admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestion 
able  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
work,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm 

1  William  Cartwright,  1611-1643,  was  a  friend  and  disciple  of 
Ben  Jonson. 


8  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

to  his  memory l  to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  bet 
ter  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride 
his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up 
the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit 
of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affec 
tion  ;  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  in 
tended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be 
appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk,  whose 
good  opinion  is  worth  having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit- 
bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their 
new-year  cakes  ; 2  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immor 
tality,  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  Medal, 
or  a  Queen  Anne's  Farthing.8 

1  The  History  of  New  York  had  given  offence  to  many  old 
New  Yorkers  because  of  its  saucy  treatment  of  names  which 
were  held  in  veneration  as  those  of  founders  of  families,  and  its 
general  burlesque  of  Dutch  character.     Among  the  critics  was  a 
warm  friend  of  Irving,  Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  who  in  a  discourse 
before  the  New  York  Historical  Society  plainly  said  :   "  It  is 
painful  to  see  a  mind,  as  admirable  for  its  exquisite  perception 
of  the  beautiful  as  it  is  for  its  quick  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  wast 
ing  the  richness  of  its  fancy  on  an  ungrateful  theme,  and  its 
exuberant  humor  in  a  coarse  caricature."    Irving  took  the  cen 
sure  good-naturedly,  and  as  he  read  Verplanck's  words  just  as 
he  was  finishing  the  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  he  gave  them  this 
playful  notice  in  the  introduction. 

2  An  oblong  seed-cake,  still  made  in  New  York  at  New  Year's 
time,  and  of  Dutch  origin. 

3  There  was  a  popular  story  that  only  three  farthings  were 
struck  in  Queen  Anne's  reign  ;  that  two  were  in  public  keeping, 
and  that  the  third  was  no  one  knew  where,  but  that  its  lucky 
finder  would  be  able  to  hold  it  at  an  enormous  price.     As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  there  were  eight  coinings  of  farthings  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  and  numismatists  do  not  set  a  high  value  on  the 
piece. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  9 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must 
remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dis 
membered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family, 
and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling 
up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surround 
ing  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change 
of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces 
some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these 
mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue 
and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear 
evening  sky ;  but  sometimes  when  the  rest  of  the  land 
scape  is  cloudless  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray 
vapors  about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of 
the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of 
glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy l  mountains,  the  voyager 
may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a 
village,  whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees, 
just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into 
the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little 
village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by 
some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  time  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government 
of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant,2  (may  he  rest  in  peace !) 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  set 
tlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 

1  A  light  touch  to  help  the  reader  into  a  proper  spirit  for  re 
ceiving  the  tale. 

2  Stuyvesant  was  governor  of  New  Netherlands  from  1647  to 
1664.     He  plays  an  important  part  in  Knickerbocker's  History  of 
New  York,  as  he  did  in  actual  life.     Until  quite  recently  a  pear 
tree  was  shown  on  the  Bowery,  said  to  have  been  planted  by 
him. 


10  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows 
and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn 
and  weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since, 
while  the  country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain, 
a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles 
who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege 
of  Fort  Christina.1  He  inherited,  however,  but  little 
of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man ;  he 
was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient  hen 
pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance 
might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained 
him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men  are 
most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad, 
who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 
Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  mal 
leable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation  ;  and 
a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world 
for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering. 
A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects  be 
considered  a  tolerable  blessing,  and  if  so,  Rip  Van 
Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all 
the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the 
amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles; 
and  never  failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters 

1  The  Van  Winkles  appear  in  the  illustrious  catalogue  of 
heroes  who  accompanied  Stuyvesant  to  Fort  Christina,  and  were 

"  Brimful  of  wrath  and  cabbage." 

See  History  of  New  York,  book  VI.  chap.  viii. 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  11 

over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame 
on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village, 
too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached, 
He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told 
them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians. 
Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts, 
clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks 
on  him  with  impunity ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at 
him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insu 
perable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It 
could  not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  persever 
ance  ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as 
long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day 
without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  en 
couraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowl 
ing-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging 
through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He 
would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor,  even  in  the 
roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country 
frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone- 
fences  ;  the  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ 
him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd 
jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for 
them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  any 
body's  business  but  his  OWE  ;  but  as  to  doing  family 
duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  im 
possible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm ;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground 
in  the  whole  country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong, 


12  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

and  would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences 
were  continually  falling  to  pieces ;  his  cow  would  either 
go  astray  or  get  among  the  cabbages  ;  weeds  were  sure 
to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else  ;  the 
rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so  that  though  his  patri 
monial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  manage 
ment,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left 
than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it 
was  the  worst -conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if 
they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Kip,  an  urchin  be 
gotten  in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the 
habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was 
generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's 
heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galli 
gaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one 
hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Kip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the 
world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can 
be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather 
starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to 
himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect 
contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the 
ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon, 
and  night  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going,  and  every 
thing  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  reply 
ing  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent 
use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  no 
thing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  13 

from  his  wife ;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his 
forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house  —  the  only 
side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who 
was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van 
Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause 
of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in 
all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was 
as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods  — 
but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and 
all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  mo 
ment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail 
drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he 
sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  side 
long  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 
flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the 
door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle 
as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on ;  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village ;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in 
the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth 
any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  dis 
cussions  that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an 
old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing 


14  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  con 
tents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the 
school-master,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictionary ;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon 
public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  con 
trolled  by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village, 
and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he 
took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suf 
ficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree  ;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by 
his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is 
true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe 
incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great 
man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and 
knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything 
that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was  ob 
served  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth 
short,  frequent  and  angry  puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he 
would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds ;  and  sometimes,  tak 
ing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head 
in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Eip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud 
denly  break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage 
and  call  the  members  all  to  naught;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Eip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair,- 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  15 

and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of 
the  farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in 
hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share 
the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he 
sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it ;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou 
shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !  "  Wolf 
would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he  recipro 
cated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal 
day,  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the 
highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was 
after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the 
still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  reechoed  with  the  re 
ports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw 
himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  cov 
ered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow 
of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees 
he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a 
mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent 
but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple 
cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there 
sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun 
tain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 
with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene ;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 


16  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  en 
countering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from 
a  distance,  hallooing,  "  Kip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van 
Winkle ! "  He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun 
tain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van 
Winkle !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  "  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him ;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction, 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any 
human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place ; 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at 
the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was 
a  short,  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 
and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion :  a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist,  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and 
made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alac- 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  17 

rity;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clam 
bered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now 
and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals  like  distant  thunder, 
that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather 
cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged 
path  conducted.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  but  sup 
posing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient 
thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  sur 
rounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks 
of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that 
you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the 
bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Eip  and 
his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though 
the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet 
there  was  something  strange  and  incomprehensible 
about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre 
was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at 
ninepins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish 
fashion  ;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enor 
mous  breeches  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large 
beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of 
another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a 
little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various 
shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 


18  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with 
a  weather-beaten  countenance  ;  he  wore  a  laced  doub 
let,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with 
roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Eip  of  the 
figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the 
settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Eip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves, 
yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mys 
terious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy 
party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed 
along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him 
with  such  fixed,  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  un 
couth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart  turned 
within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  com 
panion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com 
pany.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  re 
turned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to 
taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the 
flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another  ;  and  he  reiter 
ated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  19 

senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, 
his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  —  it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning. 
The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the 
bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breast 
ing  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought 
Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled 
the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange 
man  with  a  keg  of  liquor  —  the  mountain  ravine  — 
the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks  —  the  woe-begone 
party  at  nine-pins  —  the  flagon  —  "  Oh  !  that  flagon ! 
that  wicked  flagon  !  "  thought  Rip  —  "  what  excuse 
shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire 
lock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the 
lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now 
suspected  that  the  grave  roisters  of  the  mountain  had 
put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  li 
quor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  dis 
appeared,  but  he  inighj  have  strayed  away  after  a 
squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even 
ing's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to 
demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he 
found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "  These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 


20  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen ;  he  found  the 
gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a 
mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its 
sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of 
birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that 
twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no 
traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented 
a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a 
broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur 
rounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought 
to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his 
dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice  ;  and  who,  secure  in 
their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  the 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for 
want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ;  but  it  would 
not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his 
head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart 
full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  home 
ward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur- 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  21 

prised  him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted 
with  every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress, 
too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  con 
stant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involun 
tarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long  ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting 
after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs, 
too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  ac 
quaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very 
village  was  altered  ;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts 
had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors 
—  strange  faces  at  the  windows,  —  everything  was 
strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him ;  he  began  to 
doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him 
were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  vil 
lage,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There 
stood  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  —  there  ran  the  silver 
Hudson  at  a  distance  —  there  was  every  hill  and  dale 
precisely  as  it  had  always  been  —  Rip  was  sorely  per 
plexed  —  "  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has 
addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way 
to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent 
awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice 
of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to 
decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered, 
and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that 


22  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed  — 
"My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten 
me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  deso- 
lateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears  —  he  called 
loudly  for  his  wife  and  children  —  the  lonely  cham 
bers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  again 
all  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  re 
sort,  the  village  inn  —  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large, 
rickety  wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great 
gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended 
with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was 
painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet 
little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like 
a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on 
which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes 
—  all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He 
recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of 
King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe  ;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor 
phosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue 
and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a 
sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat, 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters,  GEN 
ERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  23 

the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bus 
tling,  disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accus 
tomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in 
vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad 
face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds 
of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches  ;  or  Van 
Bummel,  the  school-master,  doling  forth  the  contents 
of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean, 
bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  hand 
bills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citi 
zens  —  elections  —  members  of  congress  —  liberty  — 
Bunker's  Hill  —  heroes  of  seventy-six  —  and  other 
words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the 
bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army 
of  women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  tavern-politicians.  They  crowded 
round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  draw 
ing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  "  on  which  side  he 
voted  ?  "  Rip  started  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another 
short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm, 
and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  Whether 
he  was  Federal  or  Democrat  ?  "  Rip  was  equally  at 
a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question ;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat, 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the 
right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  plant 
ing  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo, 
the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp 
hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  de 
manded  in  an  austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the 
election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his 


24  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the 
village  ?  "  —  "  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat 
dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the 
place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless 
him ! " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders  — 
"  A  tory !  a  tory !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him  ! 
away  with  him !  "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored 
order;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of 
brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what 
he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking  ?  The 
poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neigh 
bors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well  —  who  are  they  ?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"  Where  's  Nicholas  Yedder  ?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice :  "  Nicholas  Ved- 
der  I  why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years ! 
There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that 
used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that 's  rotten  and  gone 
too." 

"  Where  's  Brom  Butcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of 
the  war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of 
Stony  Point l  —  others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall 
at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.2  I  don't  know  —  he 
never  came  back  again." 

1  On  the  Hudson.    The  place  is  famous  for  the  daring  assault 
made  by  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  July  15,  1779. 

2  A  few  miles  above  Stony  Point  is  the  promontory  of  An 
tony's  Nose.     If  we  are  to  believe  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  it 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  25 

"  Where  's  Van  Bummel,  the  school-master  ?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia 
general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself 
thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him 
too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and 
of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand:  war  — 
Congress  —  Stony  Point;  he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
"  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three, 
"  Oh,  to  be  sure !  that 's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  lean 
ing  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of 
himself,  as  he  went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as 
lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was 
now  completely  confounded.  He  doubted  his  own 
identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man. 

was  named  after  Antony  Van  Corlear,  Stuyvesant's  trumpeter. 
"  It  must  be  known,  then,  that  the  nose  of  Antony  the  trum 
peter  was  of  a  very  lusty  size,  strutting  boldly  from  his  counte 
nance  like  a  mountain  of  Golconda.  .  .  .  Now  thus  it  happened, 
that  bright  and  early  in  the  morning  the  good  Antony,  having 
washed  his  burly  visage,  was  leaning  over  the  quarter  railing  of 
the  galley,  contemplating  it  in  the  glassy  wave  below.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  illustrious  sun,  breaking  in  all  his  splendor 
from  behind  a  high  bluff  of  the  highlands,  did  dart  one  of  his 
most  potent  beams  full  upon  the  refulgent  nose  of  the  sounder 
of  brass  —  the  reflection  of  which  shot  straightway  down,  hissing 
hot,  into  the  water  and  killed  a  mighty  sturgeon  that  was  sport 
ing  beside  the  vessel  !  .  .  .  When  this  astonishing  miracle  came 
to  be  made  known  to  Peter  Stuyvesant  he  ...  marvelled  ex 
ceedingly  ;  and  as  a  monument  thereof,  he  gave  the  name  of 
Antony's  Nose  to  a  stout  promontory  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
it  has  continued  to  be  called  Antony's  Nose  ever  since  that 
time."  History  of  New  York,  book  VI.  chap.  iv. 


26  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his 
name? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end ;  "  I  'm 
not  myself  —  I  'm  somebody  else  —  that 's  me  yonder 
—  no  —  that 's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes  —  I 
was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  moun 
tain,  and  they  've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's 
changed,  and  I  'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my 
name,  or  who  I  am !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about 
securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from 
doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some 
precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely 
woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at 
the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her 
arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Kip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the 
old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the 
air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened 
a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your 
name,  my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name, 
but  it 's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home 
with  his  gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since,  — 
his  dog  came  home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot 
himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody 
can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  and  he  put 
it  with  a  faltering  voice :  — 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  27 

"  Where  *s  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since  ;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  Eng 
land  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort  at  least,  in  this  intel 
ligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his 
arms.  "  I  am  your  father !  "  cried  he  —  "  Young  Rip 
Van  Winkle  once  —  old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now !  Does 
nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed, 
"  Sure  enough  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself! 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor  —  Why,  where 
have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty 
years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neigh 
bors  stared  when  they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to 
wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks ;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat, 
who  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the 
field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
shook  his  head  —  upon  which  there  was  a  general 
shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of 
old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advan 
cing  up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  histo 
rian  of  that  name,1  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest 
accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient 
inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the 
wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story 
1  Adrian  Vanderdonk. 


28  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the 
company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his 
ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains 
had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it 
was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first 
discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of 
vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the 
Half -moon ;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon 
the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name. 
That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  moun 
tain;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer 
afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls  like  distant  peals  of 
thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up, 
and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the 
election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with 
her ;  she  had  a  snug  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout 
cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected 
for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his 
back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of 
himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed 
to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  an  hereditary  dis 
position  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon 
found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather 
the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time  ;  and  preferred 
making  friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with 
whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at 
that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impu 
nity,  he  took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the 
inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE.  29 

of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "  before 
the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  into 
the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  com 
prehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  dur 
ing  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  revolu 
tionary  war  —  that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the 
yoke  of  old  England  —  and  that,  instead  of  being  a 
subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now 
a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Eip,  in  fact,  was 
no  politician  ;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made 
but  little  impression  on  him ;  but  there  was  one  spe 
cies  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned, 
and  that  was  —  petticoat  government.  Happily  that 
was  at  an  end ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he 
pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  how 
ever,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
cast  up  his  eyes,  which  might  pass  either  for  an  ex> 
pression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliv 
erance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  ar 
rived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at 
first,  to  vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it. 
which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently 
awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale 
I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always 
pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that 
Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one 
point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave 
it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a 
thunder-storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaats- 


30  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

kill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are 
at  their  game  of  ninepins ;  and  it  is  a  common  wish 
of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when 
life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Yan  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart,1  and  the  Kypphaiiser  moun 
tain  ;  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the 
tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual 
fidelity. 

"  The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many, 
but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity 
of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  mar 
vellous  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many 
stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ;  all 
of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have 
even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw 
him,  was  a  very  old  venerable  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and 
consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious 
person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain  ;  nay,  I  have 
seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice 
and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The 
story  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

«D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book 
of  Mr.  Knickerbocker  :  — 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  re 
gion  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of 
spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds 

1  Frederick  I.  of  Germany,  1121-1190,  called  Barbarossa,  der 
Rothbart  (Redbeard  or  Rufus),  was  fabled  not  to  have  died  but 
to  have  gone  into  a  long  sleep,  from  which  he  would  awake 
when  Germany  should  need  him.  The  same  legend  was  told  by 
the  Danes  of  their  Holger. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  31 

over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons. 
They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother. 
She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge 
of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the 
proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut 
up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly 
propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs 
and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  moun 
tain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the 
air  ;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in 
gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen, 
and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however, 
she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of 
them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web  ;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking 
all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes 
he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead 
the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forest  and 
among  ragged  rocks  ;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho  !  ho  ! 
leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a 
great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and 
from  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild 
flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the 
haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking  in  the 
sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface. 
This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that 
the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  pre 
cincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter,  who  had  lost  his 
way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number 
of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized 
and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it 
fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth,  which 
washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was 
dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson, 
and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day  ;  being  the  identical 
stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  was  born  at  Cummington, 
Massachusetts,  November  3,  1794 ;  he  died  in  New  York, 
June  12,  1878.  His  first  poem,  The  Embargo,  was  pub 
lished  in  Boston  in  1809,  and  was  written  when  he  was  but 
thirteen  years  old ;  his  last  poem,  Our  Fellow  Worshippers, 
was  published  in  1878.  His  long  life  thus  was  a  long 
career  as  a  writer,  and  his  first  published  poem  prefigured 
the  twofold  character  of  his  literary  life,  for  while  it  was  in- 
poetic  form  it  was  more  distinctly  a  political  article.  He 
showed  very  early  a  taste  for  poetry,  and  was  encouraged 
to  read  and  write  verse  by  his  father,  Dr.  Peter  Bryant,  a 
country  physician  of  strong  character  and  cultivated  tastes. 
He  was  sent  to  Williams  College  in  the  fall  of  1810,  where 
he  remained  two  terms,  when  he  decided  to  leave  and  enter 
Yale  College;  but  pecuniary  troubles  interfered  with  his 
plans,  and  he  never  completed  his  college  course.  He  pur 
sued  his  literary  studies  at  home,  then  began  the  study  of 
law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1815.  Meantime  he 
had  been  continuing  to  write,  and  during  this  period  wrote 
with  many  corrections  and  changes  the  poem  by  which  he 
is  still  perhaps  best  known,  Thanatopsis.  It  was  published 
in  the  North  American  Review  for  September,  1817,  and 
the  same  periodical  published  a  few  months  afterward  his 
lines  To  a  Waterfowl,  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and 
lovely  of  Bryant's  poems.  Literature  divided  his  attention 
With  law,  but  evidently  had  his  heart.  In  1821  he  was 


84  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

invited  to  read  a  poem  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 
of  Harvard  College,  and  he  read  The  Ages,  a  stately  grave 
poem  which  shows  his  own  poetic  power,  his  familiarity 
with  the  great  masters  of  literature,  and  his  lofty,  philoso 
phic  nature.  Shortly  after  this  he  issued  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  and  his  name  began  to  be  known  as  that  of  the  first 
American  who  had  written  poetry  that  could  take  its  place 
in  universal  literature.  His  own  decided  preference  for  lit 
erature,  and  the  encouragement  of  friends,  led  to  his  aban 
donment  of  the  law  in  1825,  and  his  removal  to  New  York, 
where  he  undertook  the  associate  editorship  o,f  The  New 
York  Review  and  Athenceum  Magazine.  Poetic  genius  is 
not  caused  or  controlled  by  circumstance,  but  a  purely  liter 
ary  life  in  a  country  not  yet  educated  in  literature  was 
impossible  to  a  man  of  no  other  means  of  support,  and  in  a 
few  months,  after  the  Review  had  vainly  tried  to  maintain 
life  by  a  frequent  change  of  name,  Bryant  accepted  an 
appointment  as  assistant  editor  of  the  Evening  Post.  From 
1826,  then,  until  his  death,  Bryant  was  a  journalist  by  pro 
fession.  One  effect  of  this  change  in  his  life  was  to  elimi 
nate  from  his  poetry  that  political  character  which  was  dis 
played  in  his  first  published  poem  and  had  several  times  since 
shown  itself.  Thenceafter  he  threw  into  his  journalistic 
occupation  all  those  thoughts  and  experiences  which  made 
him  by  nature  a  patriot  and  political  thinker ;  he  reserved 
for  poetry  the  calm  reflection,  love  of  nature,  and  purity  of 
aspiration  which  made  him  a  poet.  His  editorial  writing 
was  made  strong  and  pure  by  his  cultivated  taste  and  lofty 
ideals,  but  he  presented  the  rare  combination  of  a  poet  who 
never  sacrificed  his  love  of  high  literature  and  his  devotion 
to  art,  and  of  a  publicist  who  retained  a  sound  judgment 
and  pursued  the  most  practical  ends. 

His  life  outwardly  was  uneventful.  He  made  four  jour 
neys  to  Europe,  in  1834,  1845,  1852,  1857,  and  he  made 
frequent  tours  in  his  own  country.  His  observations  on  his 
travels  were  published  in  Letters  from  a  Traveller,  Letters 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  35 

from  the  East,  and  Letters  from  Spain  and  other  Coun 
tries.  He  never  held  public  office,  except  that  in  1860  he 
was  a  presidential  elector,  but  he  was  connected  intimately 
with  important  movements  in  society,  literature,  and  politics, 
and  was  repeatedly  called  upon  to  deliver  addresses  com 
memorative  of  eminent  citizens,  as  of  Washington  Irving, 
and  James  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  at  the  unveiling  of  the 
bust  of  Mazzini  in  the  Central  Park.  His  Orations  and 
Addresses  have  been  gathered  into  a  volume. 

The  bulk  of  his  poetry  apart  from  his  poetic  translations 
is  not  considerable,  and  is  made  up  almost  wholly  of  short 
poems  which  are  chiefly  inspired  by  his  love  of  nature.  R. 
H.  Dana  in  his  preface  to  The  Idle  Man  says :  "  I  shall 
never  forget  with  what  feeling  my  friend  Bryant  some 
years  ago  1  described  to  me  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by 
his  meeting  for  the  first  time  with  Wordsworth's  Ballads. 
He  lived,  when  quite  young,  where  but  few  works  of  poetry 
were  to  be  had ;  at  a  period,  too,  when  Pope  was  still  the 
great  idol  of  the  Temple  of  Art.  He  said  that  upon  open 
ing  Wordsworth  a  thousand  springs  seemed  to  gush  up  at 
once  in  his  heart,  and  the  face  of  nature  of  a  sudden  to 
change  into  a  strange  freshness  and  life." 

This  was  the  interpreting  power  of  Wordsworth  suddenly 
disclosing  to  Bryant,  not  the  secrets  of  nature,  but  his  own 
powers  of  perception  and  interpretation.  Bryant  is  in  no 
sense  an  imitator  of  Wordsworth,  but  a  comparison  of  the 
two  poets  would  be  of  great  interest  as  showing  how  indi 
vidually  each  pursued  the  same  general  poetic  end.  Words 
worth's  Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower  and 
Bryant's  0  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids  offer  an  admirable 
opportunity  for  disclosing  the  separate  treatment  of  similar 
subjects.  In  Bryant's  lines,  musical  and  full  of  a  gentle  rev- 
ery,  the  poet  seems  to  go  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  forest, 
almost  forgetful  of  the  "  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ; "  in 
Wordsworth's  lines,  with  what  simple  yet  profound  feeling 

1  This  was  written  in  1833. 


36  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

the  poet,  after  delicately  disclosing  the  interchange  of  nature 
and  human  life,  returns  into  those  depths  of  human  sympa 
thy  where  nature  must  forever  remain  as  a  remote  shadow. 

Bryant  translated  many  short  poems  from  the  Spanish, 
but  his  largest  literary  undertaking  was  the  translation  of 
the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Homer.  He  brought  to  this  task 
great  requisite  powers,  and  if  there  is  any  failure  it  is  in  the 
absence  of  Homer's  lightness  and  rapidity,  qualities  which 
the  elasticity  of  the  Greek  language  especially  favored. 

A  pleasant  touch  of  a  simple  humor  appeared  in  some  of 
his  social  addresses,  and  occasionally  is  found  in  his  poems, 
as  in  Robert  of  Lincoln.  Suggestions  of  personal  experi 
ence  will  be  read  in  such  poems  as  The  Cloud  on  the  Way, 
The  Life  that  Is,  and  in  the  half-autobiographic  poem,  A 
Lifetime. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides  « 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter1  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  the  spirit,  and  sad  images  ifl 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ;  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  —         is 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears,         20 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go  25 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 


38  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send,  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould,      so 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  could st  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good,         35 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Eock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move  40 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round 

all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun,  45 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  —  Take  the  wings  so 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are  there  : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first  55 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 


TO  A    WATERFOWL.  89 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe  ea 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come  85 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  —      70 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take         76 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  nigfct, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch  so 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 


40  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 
Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide,  10 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air —  15 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.  20 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven  as 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight*  20 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

IN  reading  the  life  of  Franklin  we  are  constantly  sur 
prised  at  the  versatility  of  his  powers.  He  achieved  an  un 
dying  reputation  as  a  man  of  business,  as  a  scientist,  as  a 
writer,  as  a  statesman,  and  as  a  diplomatist.  It  is  impossi 
ble  to  give  here  an  adequate  idea  of  his  greatness  or  of  the 
debt  of  gratitude  which  we  all  owe  him  for  the  help  he  ren 
dered  our  nation  in  times  of  sore  need.  For  the  events  of 
his  life  the  reader  is  referred  to  his  Autobiography  *  —  a 
classic  masterpiece  with  which  every  American  should  be 
familiar.  What  follows  is  a  review  of  Franklin's  character 
by  John  T.  Morse,  Jr.,  at  the  end  of  his  admirable  bio 
graphy  of  Franklin,  in  the  American  Statesmen  Series :  — 

"Among  illustrious  Americans  Franklin  stands  preemi 
nent  in  the  interest  which  is  aroused  by  a  study  of  his  char 
acter,  his  mind  and  his  career.  One  becomes  attached  to 
him,  bids  him  farewell  with  regret,  and  feels  that  for  such 
as  he  the  longest  span  of  life  is  all  too  short.  Even  though 
dead,  ho  attracts  a  personal  regard  which  renders  easily 
intelligible  the  profound  affection  which  so  many  men  felt 
for  him  while  living.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  one 
man  ever  had  so  many,  such  constant,  and  such  firm  frienda 
as  in  three  different  nations  formed  about  him  a  veritable 
host.  In  the  States  and  in  France  he  was  loved,  and  as  he 
grew  into  old  age  he  was  revered,  not  by  those  who  heard 

1  See  Riverside  Literature  Series,  Nos.  19  and  20. 


42  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

of  him  only,  but  most  warmly  by  those  who  best  knew  him- 
Even  in  England,  where  for  years  he  was  the  arch  rebel  of 
all  America,  he  was  generally  held  in  respect  and  esteem, 
and  had  many  constant  friends  whose  confidence  no  events 
could  shake.  .  .  .  Moral,  intellectual,  and  material  boons 
he  conferred  in  such  abundance  that  few  such  benefactors 
of  the  race  can  be  named,  though  one  should  survey  all  the 
ages.  A  man  of  a  greater  humanity  never  lived :  and  the 
quality  which  stood  Abou  Ben  Adhem  in  good  stead  should 
suffice  to  save  Franklin  from  human  criticism.  He  not  only 
loved  his  kind,  but  he  also  trusted  them  with  an  implicit 
confidence,  reassuring  if  not  extraordinary  in  an  observer  of 
his  shrewdness  and  experience.  .  .  . 

"  Franklin's  inborn  ambition  was  the  noblest  of  all  ambi 
tions  :  to  be  of  practical  use  to  the  multitude  of  men.  The 
chief  motive  of  his  life  was  to  promote  the  welfare  of  man 
kind.  Every  moment  which  he  could  snatch  from  enforced 
occupations  was  devoted  to  doing,  devising,  or  suggesting 
something  advantageous  more  or  less  generally  to  men.  .  .  . 
His  desire  was  to  see  the  community  prosperous,  comfortable, 
happy,  advancing  in  the  accumulation  of  money  and  of  all 
physical  goods,  but  not  to  the  point  of  luxury ;  it  was  by  no 
means  the  pile  of  dollars  which  was  his  end,  and  he  did  not 
care  to  see  many  men  rich,  but  rather  to  see  all  men  well 
to  do.  He  was  perfectly  right  in  thinking  that  virtuous  liv 
ing  has  the  best  prospects  in  a  well-to-do  society.  He  gave 
liberally  of  his  own  means  and  induced  others  to  give,  and 
promoted  in  proportion  to  the  ability  of  the  community  a 
surprising  number  of  public  and  ^mm-public  enterprises; 
and  always  the  fireside  of  the  poor  man  was  as  much  in  his 
thought  as  the  benefit  of  the  richer  circle.  Fair  dealing  and 
kindliness,  prudence  and  economy  in  order  to  procure  the 
comforts  and  simpler  luxuries  of  life,  reading  and  knowledge 
for  those  uses  which  wisdom  subserves,  constituted  the  real 
essence  of  his  teaching.  His  inventive  genius  was  ever  at 
work  devising  methods  of  making  daily  life  more  agreeable, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  43 

comfortable,  and  wholesome  for  all  who  have  to  live.  In 
a  word,  the  service  of  his  fellow-men  was  his  constant  aim ; 
and  he  so  served  them  that  those  public  official  functions 
which  are  euphemistically  called  *  public  services '  seemed 
in  his  case  almost  an  interruption  of  the  more  direct  and 
far-reaching  services  which  he  was  intent  upon  rendering  to 
all  civilized  peoples.  .  .  . 

"  As  a  patriot  none  surpassed  him.  Again  it  was  the 
love  of  the  people  that  induced  this  feeling,  which  grew  from 
no  theory  as  to  forms  of  government,  no  abstractions  and 
doctrines  about  *  the  rights  of  man.'  .  .  .  During  the  strug 
gle  of  the  States  no  man  was  more  hearty  in  the  cause  than 
Franklin;  and  the  depth  of  feeling  shown  in  his  letters, 
simple  and  unrhetorical  as  they  are,  is  impressive.  All  that 
he  had  he  gave.  What  also  strikes  the  reader  of  his  writ 
ings  is  the  broad  national  spirit  which  he  manifested.  He 
had  an  immense  respect  for  the  dignity  of  America ;  he  was 
perhaps  fortunately  saved  from  disillusionment  by  his  dis 
tance  from  home.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  the  way  in  which 
he  felt  and  therefore  genuinely  talked  about  his  nation  and 
his  country  was  not  without  its  moral  effect  in  Europe. 

"  Intellectually  there  are  few  men  who  are  Franklin's  peers 
in  all  the  ages  and  nations.  He  covered,  and  covered  well, 
vast  ground.  The  reputation  of  doing  and  knowing  various 
unrelated  things  is  wont  to  bring  suspicion  of  perfunctori- 
ness;  but  the  ideal  of  the  human  intellect  is  an  under 
standing  to  which  all  knowledge  and  all  activity  are  ger 
mane.  There  have  been  a  few,  very  few  minds  which  have 
approximated  toward  this  ideal,  and  among  them  Franklin's 
is  prominent.  He  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  scien 
tists  who  have  ever  lived.  Bancroft  calls  him  '  the  greatest 
diplomatist  of  his  century.' 1  His  ingenious  and  useful  de 
vices  and  inventions  were  very  numerous.  He  possessed  a 
masterly  shrewdness  in  business  and  practical  affairs.  He 
was  a  profound  thinker  and  preacher  in  morals  and  on  the 

i  Bancroft,  History  of  the  United  States,  ix.  134. 


44  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

conduct  of  life  ;  so  that  with  the  exception  of  the  founders 
of  great  religions  it,  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  persons 
who  have  more  extensively  influenced  the  ideas,  motives, 
and  habits  of  life  of  men.  He  was  one  of  the  most,  perhaps 
the  most  agreeable  conversationist  of  his  age.  He  was  a 
rare  wit  and  humorist,  and  in  an  age  when  t  American 
humor '  was  still  unborn,  amid  contemporaries  who  have 
left  no  trace  of  a  jest,  still  less  of  the  faintest  appreciation 
of  humor,  all  which  he  said  and  wrote  was  brilliant  with 
both  the  most  charming  qualities  of  the  human  mind.  .  .  . 
He  was  a  man  who  impressed  his  ability  upon  all  who  met 
him  ;  so  that  the  abler  the  man  and  the  more  experienced 
in  judging  men,  the  higher  did  he  rate  Franklin  when 
brought  into  direct  contact  with  him ;  politicians  and  states 
men  of  Europe,  distrustful  and  sagacious,  trained  readers 
and  valuers  of  men,  gave  him  the  rare  honor  of  placing  con 
fidence  not  only  in  his  personal  sincerity,  but  in  his  broad 
fairmindedness,  a  mental  quite  as  much  as  a  moral  trait. 

"  It  is  hard  indeed  to  give  full  expression  to  a  man  of  such 
scope  in  morals,  in  mind,  and  in  affairs.  He  illustrates 
humanity  in  an  astonishing  multiplicity  of  ways  at  an  infi 
nite  number  of  points.  He,  more  than  any  other,  seems  to 
show  us  how  many-sided  our  human  nature  is.  No  individ 
ual,  of  course,  fills  the  entire  circle ;  but  if  we  can  imagine 
a  circumference  which  shall  express  humanity,  we  can  place 
within  it  no  one  man  who  will  reach  out  to  approach  it  and 
to  touch  it  at  so  many  points  as  will  Franklin.  A  man  of 
active  as  well  as  universal  good  will,  of  perfect  trustfulness 
towards  all  dwellers  on  the  earth,  of  supreme  wisdom 
expanding  over  all  the  interests  of  the  race,  none  has  earned 
a  more  kindly  loyalty.  By  the  instruction  which  he  gave, 
by  his  discoveries,  by  his  inventions,  and  by  his  achieve 
ments  in  public  life  he  earns  the  distinction  of  having  ren 
dered  to  men  varied  and  useful  services  excelled  by  no  other 
one  man;  and  thus  he  has  established  a  claim  upon  the 
gratitude  of  mankind  so  broad  that  history  holds  few  who 
can  be  his  rivals." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  46 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL  EVENTS  IN 
THE  LIFE  OF  FRANKLIN. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts  ....  January  17,  1700 

Is  apprenticed  to  his  brother,  a  printer  .....  1718 

Begins  to  write  for  the  "  New  England  Courant  "  .  .  .  1719 

Runs  away  to  New  York,  and  finally  to  Philadelphia  .  .  1723 
Goes  to  England  and  works  at  his  trade  as  a  journeyman 

printer  in  London  ........  1725 

Returns  to  Philadelphia 1726 

Marries 1730 

Establishes  the  "Philadelphia  Gazette"  .  .  .  .  1730 
First  publishes  "  Poor  Richard's  Almanac  "  1732 
Is  appointed  Postmaster  of  Philadelphia  .  •  •  .  1737 
Establishes  the  Philadelphia  Public  Library  .  *  *  .  .  1742 
Establishes  the  American  Philosophical  Society  and  the  Uni 
versity  of  Philadelphia  1744 

Carries  on  the  investigations  by  which  he  proves  the  identity 

of  lightning  with  electricity  ....  *  1746-52 

Assists  in  founding  a  hospital  .  «  .  •  »  .  1751 

Is  appointed  Postmaster-General  for  the  Colonies  .  *  .  1753 
Is  sent  by  the  Assembly  of  the  Province  of  Pennsylvania  as  an 

emissary  to  England  in  behalf  of  the  colonists  .  .  ,  1757 
Receives  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  from  St.  Andrews,  Oxford,  and 

Edinburgh 1764 

Procures  a  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act 1766 

Is  elected  F.  R.  S.,  and  receives  the  Copley  Gold  Medal  for  his 

papers  on  the  nature  of  lightning  .  .  •  •  .  •  1775 

Is  elected  to  the  Continental  Congress  .  .  .  .  *  1775 
Signs  the  Declaration  of  Independence  (having  been  one  of  the 

committee  to  draft  it) 1776 

Is  employed  in  the  diplomatic  service  of  the  United  States, 

chiefly  at  Paris 1776-85 

Is  President  of  the  Pennsylvania  Supreme  Council  .  .  1785-88 
Is  a  delegate  to  the  convention  to  draw  up  the  United  States 

Constitution 1787 

Dies  at  Philadelphia April  17, 1790 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC. 

[IN  Franklin's  lifetime  the  almanac  was  the  most  populat 
form  of  literature  in  America.  A  few  people  read  newspapers, 
but  every  farmer  who  could  read  at  all  had  an  almanac  hanging 
by  the  fireplace.  Besides  the  monthly  calendar  and  movements 
of  the  heavenly  bodies,  the  almanac  contained  anecdotes,  scraps 
of  useful  information,  and  odds  and  ends  of  literature.  Franklin 
began  the  publication  of  such  an  almanac  in  1732,  pretending 
that  it  was  written  by  one  Richard  Saunders.  It  was  pub 
lished  annually  for  twenty-five  years.  "  I  endeavored,"  says 
Franklin,  "  to  make  it  both  entertaining  and  useful ;  and  it  ac 
cordingly  came  to  be  in  such  demand,  that  I  reaped  considerable 
profit  from  it,  vending  annually  near  ten  thousand.  And  observ 
ing  that  it  was  generally  read,  scarce  any  neighborhood  in  the 
province  being  without  it,  I  considered  it  as  a  proper  vehicle 
for  conveying  instruction  among  the  common  people,  who 
bought  scarcely  any  other  books  ;  I  therefore  filled  all  the  little 
spaces  that  occurred  between  the  remarkable  days  in  the  calendar 
with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly  such  as  inculcated  industry  and 
frugality  as  the  means  of  procuring  wealth,  and  thereby  securing 
virtue  ;  it  being  more  difficult  for  a  man  in  want  to  act  always 
honestly,  as,  to  use  here  one  of  those  proverbs,  '  it  is  hard  for 
an  empty  sack  to  stand  upright.' "  In  the  almanac  Franklin  in 
troduced  his  proverbs  by  the  phrase  Poor  Richard  says,  as  if  he 
were  quoting  from  Richard  Saunders,  and  so  the  almanac  came 
to  be  called  Poor  Richard's  Almanac. 

"  These  proverbs,"  he  continues,  "  which  contain  the  wisdom 
of  man$  ages  and  nations,  I  assembled  and  formed  into  a  con 
nected  discourse,  prefixed  to  the  almanac  of  1757,  as  the  harangue 
of  a  wise  old  man  to  the  people  attending  an  auction.  The 
bringing  all  these  scattered  counsels  thus  into  a  focus  enabled 
them  to  make  greater  impression.  The  piece,  being  universally 
approved,  was  copied  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  continent 
[that  is,  the  American  continent]  ;  reprinted  in  Britain  on  a 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  47 

broadside,  to  be  stuck  up  in  houses  ;  two  translations  were  made 
of  it  in  French,  and  great  numbers  bought  by  the  clergy  and 
gentry,  to  distribute  gratis  among  their  poor  parishioners  and 
tenants.  In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  discouraged  useless  expense  in 
foreign  superfluities,  some  thought  it  had  its  share  of  influence 
in  producing  that  growing  plenty  of  money  which  was  observable 
for  several  years  after  its  publication." 

Franklin's  example  was  followed  by  other  writers,  —  Noah, 
Webster,  the  maker  of  dictionaries,  among  them  ;  and  one  can 
see  in  the  popular  almanacs  of  to-day,  such  as  The  Old  Farmer's 
Almanac,  the  effect  of  Franklin's  style.  When  the  king  of  France 
gave  Captain  John  Paul  Jones  a  ship  with  which  to  make  attacks 
upon  British  merchantmen  in  the  war  for  independence,  it  was 
named,  out  of  compliment  to  Franklin,  the  Bon  Homme  Richardt 
which  might  be  translated  Clever  Richard.  The  pages  which 
follow  are  the  connected  discourse  prefixed  to  the  almanac  of 
1757.]  

COURTEOUS  READER  :  — 

I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an  author  so  great 
pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respectfully  quoted  by 
other  learned  authors.  This  pleasure  I  have  seldom 
enjoyed.  For  though  I  have  been,  if  I  may  say  it 
without  vanity,  an  eminent  author  of  Almanacs  annu 
ally,  now  for  a  full  quarter  of  a  century,  my  brother 
authors  in  the  same  way,  for  what  reason  I  know  not, 
have  ever  been  very  sparing  in  their  applauses ;  and 
no  other  author  has  taken  the  least  notice  of  me ;  so 
that  did  not  my  writings  produce  me  some  solid  pud 
ding,  the  great  deficiency  of  praise  would  have  quite 
discouraged  me. 

I  concluded  at  length,  that  the  people  were  the  best 
judges  of  my  merit ;  for  they  buy  my  works ;  and 
besides,  in  my  rambles,  where  I  am  not  personally 
known,  I  have  frequently  heard  one  or  other  of  my 
adages  repeated,  with  as  Poor  Richard  says  at  the 
end  of  it.  This  gave  me  some  satisfaction,  as  it 


48  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

showed,  not  only  that  my  instructions  were  regarded, 
but  discovered  likewise  some  respect  for  my  authority ; 
and  I  own,  that  to  encourage  the  practice  of  remem 
bering  and  repeating  those  sentences,  I  have  some 
times  quoted  myself  with  great  gravity. 

Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must  have  been  gratified 
by  an  incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you.  I  stopped 
my  horse  lately  where  a  great  number  of  people  were 
collected  at  a  vendue  of  merchant's  goods.  The  hour 
of  sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on  the 
badness  of  the  times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called 
to  a  plain,  clean  old  man  with  white  locks,  "  Pray, 
Father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of  the  times  ?  Won't 
these  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country?  How  shall 
we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them?  What  would  you  advise 
us  to  ?  "  Father  Abraham  stood  up  and  replied :  "  If 
you  would  have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short ; 
for  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough,  and  Many  words 
won't  fill  a  bushel^  as  Poor  Richard  says."  They  all 
joined,  desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and  gathering 
round  him,  he  proceeded  as  follows:  — 

Friends,  says  he,  and  neighbors,  the  taxes  are  in 
deed  very  heavy,  and  if  those  laid  on  by  the  govern 
ment  were  the  only  ones  we  had  to  pay,  we  might  the 
more  easily  discharge  them ;  but  we  have  many  others, 
and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are  taxed 
twice  as  much  by  our  IDLENESS,  three  times  as  much 
by  our  PRIDE,  and  four  times  as  much  by  our  FOLLY  5 
and  from  these  taxes  the  commissioners  cannot  ease 
or  deliver  us,  by  allowing  an  abatement.  However,  let 
us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and  something  may  be  done 
for  us;  God  helps  them  that  helps  themselves,  as  Poor 
Richard  says  in  his  Almanac  of  1733. 

It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government  that  should 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  49 

tax  its  people  one  tenth  part  of  their  TIME,  to  be  em 
ployed  in  its  service,  but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us 
much  more,  if  we  reckon  all  that  is  spent  in  absolute 
sloth,  or  doing  of  nothing ;  with  that  which  is  spent 
in  idle  employments  or  amusements  that  amount  to 
nothing.  Sloth,  by  bringing  on  diseases,  absolutely 
shortens  life.  Sloth,  like  rust,  consumes  faster  than 
labor  wears  ;  while  the  used  key  is  always  bright,  as 
Poor  Richard  says.  But  dost  thou  love  life  ?  then  do 
not  squander  time,  for  that 's  the  stuff  life  is  made  of, 
as  Poor  Richard  says. 

How  much  more  that  is  necessary  do  we  spend  in 
sleep?  forgetting,  that  the  sleeping  fox  catches  no 
poultry,  and  that  there  will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the 
grave,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  If  time  be  of  all  things 
the  most  precious,  wasting  of  time  must  be,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  the  greatest  prodigality;  since,  as  he 
elsewhere  tells  us,  lost  time  is  never  found  again  ;  and 
what  we  call  time  enough  !  always  proves  little  enough. 
Let  us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose ; 
so,  by  diligence,  shall  we  do  more  with  less  perplexity. 
Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  industry  all 
things  easy,  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and  He  that  riseth 
late  must  trot  all  day,  and  shall  scarce  overtake  his 
business  at  night;  while  laziness  travels  so  slowly 
that  Poverty  soon  overtakes  him,  as  we  read  in  Poor 
Richard ;  who  adds,  Drive  thy  business  I  let  not  that 
drive  thee  1  and  — 

Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise 

Makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy  and  wise. 

So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  better 
times  ?  We  may  make  these  times  better,  if  we  bestir 
ourselves.  Industry  need  not  wish,  as  Poor  Richard 
says,  and  He,  that  lives  on  hope  will  die  fasting. 


50  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

There  are  no  gains  without  pains  ;  then  help,  hands/ 
for  I  have  no  lands  ;  or,  if  I  have,  they  are  smartly 
taxed.  And,  as  Poor  Richard  likewise  observes,  He 
that  hath  a  trade  hath  an  estate,  and  he  that  hath  a 
calling  hath  an  office  of  profit  and  honor  ;  but  then 
the  trade  must  be  worked  at,  and  the  calling  well  fol 
lowed,  or  neither  the  estate  nor  the  office  will  enable 
us  to  pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are  industrious  we  shall 
never  starve ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  At  the  workr 
ing-man9 s  house  hunger  looks  in,  but  dares  not  enter. 
Nor  will  the  bailiff  or  the  constable  enter,  for  Industry 
pays  debts,  while  despair  increaseth  them. 

What  though  you  have  found  no  treasure,  nor  has 
any  rich  relation  left  you  a  legacy,  Diligence  is  the 
mother  of  good  luck,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  and  God 
gives  all  things  to  industry. 

Then  plough  deep  while  sluggards  sleep, 
And  you  shall  have  corn  to  sell  and  to  keep, 

says  Poor  Dick.  "Work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  for 
you  know  not  how  much  you  may  be  hindered  to- 
morrow ;  which  makes  Poor  Richard  say,  One  to-day 
is  worth  two  to-morrows ;  and  farther,  Have  you 
somewhat  to  do  to-morrow  ?  Do  it  to-day  ! 

If  you  were  a  servant,  would  you  not  be  ashamed 
that  a  good  master  should  catch  you  idle  ?  Are  you 
then  your  own  master  ?  Be  ashamed  to  catch  your>- 
self  idle^  as  Poor  Dick  says.  When  there  is  so  much 
to  be  done  for  yourself,  your  family,  your  country, 
and  your  gracious  king,  be  up  by  peep  of  day !  Let 
not  the  sun  look  down  and  say,  "  Inglorious  here  he 
lies  I "  Handle  your  tools  without  mittens  !  remem 
ber  that  The  cat  in  gloves  catches  no  mice  I  as  Poor 
Richard  says. 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.'  51 

'T  is  true  there  is  much  to  be  done,  and  perhaps 
you  are  weak-handed ;  but  stick  to  it  steadily,  and  you 
will  see  great  effects ;  for  Constant  dropping  wears 
away  stones ;  and  By  diligence  and  patience  the 
mouse  ate  in  two  the  cable  ;  and  Little  strokes  fell 
great  oaks  ;  as  Poor  Richard  says  in  his  Almanac, 
the  year  I  cannot  just  now  remember. 

Methinks  I  hear  some  of  you  say,  "  Must  a  man 
afford  himself  no  leisure  ? "  I  will  tell  thee,  my 
friend,  what  Poor  Richard  says,  Employ  thy  time 
welly  if  thou  meanest  to  gain  leisure  ;  and  Since  thou 
art  not  sure  of  a  minute,  throw  not  away  an  hour  I 
Leisure  is  time  for  doing  something  useful ;  this  lei 
sure  the  diligent  man  will  obtain,  but  the  lazy  man 
never  ;  so  that,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  A  life  of  leisure 
and  a  life  of  laziness  are  two  things.  Do  you  im 
agine  that  sloth  will  afford  you  more  comfort  than 
labor?  No!  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  Trouble 
springs  from  idleness,  and  grievous  toil  from  needless 
ease.  Many,  without  labor,  would  live  by  their  wits 
only,  but  they  ^11  break  for  want  of  stock  [i.  e.  capi 
tal]  ;  whereas  industry  gives  comfort,  and  plenty,  and 
respect.  Fly  pleasures,  and  they  'II  follow  you.  The 
diligent  spinner  has  a  large  shift ;  and  — 

Now  I  have  a  sheep  and  a  cow, 
Everybody  bids  me  good  morrow. 

All  which  is  well  said  by  Poor  Richard.  But  with 
our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  settled,  and 
careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs  with  our  own 
eyes,  and  not  trust  too  much  to  others ;  for,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  — 

/  never  saw  an  oft-removed  tree 

Nor  yet  an  oft-removed  family 

That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be. 


52  •      BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

And  again,  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  afire; 
and  again,  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep 
thee ;  and  again,  If  you  would  have  your  business 
done,  go;  if  not,  send.  And  again, — 

He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrivef 

Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive. 

And  again,  The  eye  of  the  master  will  do  more 
work  than  both  his  hands  ;  and  again,  Want  of  care 
does  us  more  damage  than  want  cf  knowledge ;  and 
again,  Not  to  oversee  workmen  is  to  leave  them  your 
purse  open. 

Trusting  too  much  to  others'  care  is  the  ruin  of 
many ;  for,  as  the  Almanac  says,  In  the  affairs  of 
this  world  men  are  saved,  not  by  faith,  but  by  the 
want  of  it ;  but  a  man's  own  care  is  profitable  ;  for 
saith  Poor  Dick,  Learning  is  to  the  studious,  and 
ffiches  to  the  careful ;  as  well  as,  Power  to  the  bold, 
and  Heaven  to  the  virtuous.  And  further,  If  you 
would  have  a  faithful  servant,  and  one  that  you  like, 
serve  yourself. 

And  again,  he  adviseth  to  circumspection  and  care, 
even  in  the  smallest  matters ;  because  sometimes,  A 
little  neglect  may  breed  great  mischief;  adding,  for 
want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost ;  for  want  of  a  shoe 
the  horse  was  lost ;  and  for  want  of  a  horse  the  rider 
was  lost ;  being  overtaken  and  slain  by  the  enemy; 
all  for  want  of  a  little  care  about  a  horse-shoe  nail ! 

So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to 
one's  own  business  ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugal 
ity,  if  we  would  make  our  industry  more  certainly  suc 
cessful.  A  man  may,  if  he  knows  not  how  to  save  as 
he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all  his  life  to  the  grindstone^ 
and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.  A  fat  kitchen 
a  lean  willy  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  — 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  53 

Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 

Since  women  for  tea l  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 

And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting. 

If  you  would  be  wealthy,  says  he  in  another  Al 
manac,  Think  of  saving  as  well  as  of  getting.  The 
Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich ;  because  her  out 
goes  are  greater  than  her  incomes. 

Away,  then,  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you 
will  not  have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard 
times,  heavy  taxes,  and  chargeable  families;  for,  as 
Poor  Dick  says,  — 

Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 
Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  wants  great. 

And  farther,  What* maintains  one  vice  would  bring 
up  two  children.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a 
little  tea,  or  a  little  punch  now  and  then ;  a  diet  a 
little  more  costly;  clothes  a  little  more  finer;  and 
a  little  more  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no 
great  matter  ;  but  remember  what  Poor  Richard  says, 
Many  a  little  makes  a  mickle  ;  and  further,  Beware 
of  little  expenses;  A  small  leak  will  sink  a  great 
ship  ;  and  again,  — 

Who  dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove  ; 

and  moreover,  Fools  make  feasts^  and  wise  men  eat 
them. 

Here  are  you  all  got  together  at  this  vendue  of 
fineries  and  knick-knacks.  You  call  them  goods ; 
but  if  you  do  not  take  care,  they  will  prove  evils  to 
some  of  you.  You  expect  they  will  be  sold  cheap, 
and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they  cost ;  but,  if 
you  have  no  occasion  for  them,  they  must  be  dear  to 

1  Tea  at  this  time  was  a  costly  drink,  and  was  regarded  as  a 
luxury. 


54  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

you.  Remember  what  Poor  Richard  says :  Buy  what 
thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere  long  thou  shalt  sell  thy 
necessaries.  And  again,  At  a  great  penny  worth  pause 
a  while.  He  means,  that  perhaps  the  cheapness  is 
apparent  only,  and  not  real ;  or  the  bargain  by  strait 
ening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm 
than  good.  For  in  another  place  he  says,  Many  have 
been  ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths. 

Again,  Poor  Richard  says,  9T  is  foolish  to  lay  out 
money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance;  and  yet  this 
folly  is  practised  every  day  at  vendues  for  want  of 
minding  the  Almanac. 

Wise  men,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  learn  by  others' 
harms;  Fools  scarcely  by  their  own;  but  Felix 
quern  faciunt  aliena  pericula  cautum.1  Many  a  one, 
for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the  back,  has  gone  with  a 
hungry  belly,  and  half -starved  their  families.  /Silks 
and  satins,  scarlets  and  velvets,  as  Poor  Richard 
says,  put  out  the  kitchen  fire.  These  are  not  the  ne 
cessaries  of  life ;  they  can  scarcely  be  called  the  con 
veniences  ;  and  yet,  only  because  they  look  pretty,  how 
many  want  to  have  them!  The  artificial  wants  of 
mankind  thus  become  more  numerous  than  the  nat 
ural  ;  and,  as  Poor  Dick  says,  For  one  poor  person 
there  are  a  hundred  indigent. 

By  these,  and  other  extravagances,  the  genteel  are 
reduced  to  poverty,  and  forced  to  borrow  of  those 
whom  they  formerly  despised,  but  who,  through  in- 
dustry  and  frugality,  have  maintained  their  standing ; 
in  which  case  it  appears  plainly,  that  A  ploughman 
on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a  gentleman  on  his  knees, 
as  Poor  Richard  says.  Perhaps  they  have  had  a 

1  He  's  a  lucky  fellow  who  is  made  prudent  by  other  men's 
perils. 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  55 

small  estate  left  them,  which  they  knew  not  the  get 
ting  of ;  they  think,  '  T  is  day,  and  will  never  "be 
night ;  that  a  little,  to  be  spent  out  of  so  much  is  not 
worth  minding  ;  (A  child  and  a  fool,  as  Poor  Rich 
ard  says,  imagine  twenty  shillings  and  twenty  years 
can  never  be  spent,)  but  Always  taking  out  of  the 
meal-tub,  and  never  putting  in,  soon  comes  to  the 
bottom.  Then,  as  Poor  Dick  says,  When  the  well 's 
dry,  they  know  the  worth  of  water.  But  this  they 
might  have  known  before,  if  they  had  taken  his  ad 
vice.  If  you  would  know  the  value  of  money,  go 
and  try  to  borrow  some  ;  for  He  that  goes  a  borrow 
ing,  goes  a  sorrowing,  and  indeed  so  does  he  that 
lends  to  such  people,  when  he  goes  to  get  it  in  again, 
Poor  Dick  further  advises,  and  says  — 

Fond  pride  of  dress  is,  sure  a  very  curse  ; 
Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse. 

And  again,  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want,  and 
a  great  deal  more  saucy.  When  you  have  bought 
one  fine  thing,  you  must  buy  ten  more,  that  your  ap 
pearance  may  be  all  of  a  piece  ;  but  Poor  Dick  says, 
'T  is  easier  to  suppress  the  first  desire,  than  to  sat 
isfy  all  that  follow  it.  And  't  is  as  truly  folly  for 
the  poor  to  ape  the  rich,  as  for  the  frog  to  swell  ii> 
order  to  equal  the  ox. 

Great  estates  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore. 

"Tis,  however,  a  folly  soon  punished;  for,  Pride 
that  dines  on  vanity  sups  on  contempt,  as  Poor  Rich 
ard  says.  And  in  another  place,  Pride  breakfasted 
with  Plenty,  dined  with  Poverty,  and  supped  with 
Infamy. 

And  after  all,  of  what  use  is  this  pride  of  appear- 


56  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

ance,  for  which  so  much  is  risked,  so  much  is  suffered? 
It  cannot  promote  health  or  ease  pain ;  it  makes  no 
increase  of  merit  in  the  person ;  it  creates  envy ;  it 
hastens  misfortune. 

What  is  a  butterfly  ?    At  best 
He 's  but  a  caterpillar  drest, 
The  gaudy  fop 's  his  picture  just, 

as  Poor  Richard  says. 

But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  into  debt  for 
these  superfluities !  We  are  offered,  by  the  terms  of 
this  vendue,  six  months'  credit ;  and  that,  perhaps, 
has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it,  because  we  cannot 
spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope  now  to  be  fine  with 
out  it.  But,  ah  !  think  what  you  do  when  you  run  in 
debt:  You  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty. 
If  you  cannot  pay  at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to 
see  your  creditor  ;  you  will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak 
to  him ;  you  will  make  poor,  pitiful,  sneaking  excuses, 
and  by  degrees  come  to  lose  your  veracity,  and  sink 
into  base,  downright  lying ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says, 
The  second  vice  is  lying,  the  first  is  running  into 
debt;  and  again,  to  the  same  purpose,  lying  rides 
upon  debt's  back ;  whereas  a  free-born  Englishman 
ought  not  to  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to  see  or  speak  to 
any  man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a  man  of 
all  spirit  and  virtue.  'Tis  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to 
stand  upright !  as  Poor  Richard  truly  says.  What 
would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  the  government, 
who  should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like 
a  gentleman  or  gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment 
or  servitude  ?  Would  you  not  say  that  you  are  free, 
have  a  right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and  that  such  an 
edict  would  be  a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and  such  a 
government  tyrannical?  And  yet  you  are  about  to 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  57 

put  yourself  under  such  tyranny,  when  you  run  in 
debt  for  such  dress  !  Your  creditor  has  authority,  at 
his  pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your  liberty,  by  con 
fining  you  in  jail  for  life,  or  to  sell  you  for  a  servant, 
if  you  should  not  be  able  to  pay  him.1  When  you 
Lave  got  your  bargain,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  little 
of  payment ;  but  Creditors  (Poor  Kichard  tells  us) 
Jiave  better  memories  than  debtors ;  and  in  another 
place  says,  Creditors  are  a  superstitious  set,  great  ob 
servers  of  set  days  and  times.  The  day  comes  round 
before  you  are  aware,  and  the  demand  is  made  before 
you  are  prepared  to  satisfy  it ;  or,  if  you  bear  your 
debt  in  mind,  the  term  which  at  first  seemed  so  long, 
will,  as  it  lessens,  appear  extremely  short.  Time  will 
seem  to  have  added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well  as  his 
shoulders.  Those  have  a  short  Lent,  saith  Poor 
Richard,  who  owe  money  to  be  paid  at  Easter.  Then 
since,  as  he  says,  The  borrower  is  a  slave  to  the 
lender,  and  the  debtor  to  the  creditor,  disdain  the 
chain,  preserve  your  freedom,  and  maintain  your  in 
dependency.  Be  industrious  and  free ;  be  frugal 
and  free.  At  present,  perhaps,  you  may  think  your 
self  in  thriving  circumstances,  and  that  you  can  bear 
a  little  extravagance  without  injury  ;  but  — 

For  age  and  want,  save  while  you  may, 
No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day. 

As  Poor  Richard  says,  gain  may  be  temporary  and 
uncertain  ;  but  ever,  while  you  live,  expense  is  con 
stant  and  certain  ;  and  '  Tis  easier  to  build  two  chim 
neys  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,  as  Poor  Richard  says  ; 
so,  Rather  go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in  debt. 

1  At  the  time  when  this  was  written,  and  for  many  years  af 
terward,  the  laws  against  bankrupts  and  poor  debtors  were  ex 
tremely  severe. 


58  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN, 

Get  what  you  can  and  what  you  get  hold ; 

'  T  is  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold?- 

as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and,  when  you  have  got  the 
Philosopher's  stone,  sure,  you  will  no  longer  complain 
of  bad  times  or  the  difficulty  of  paying  taxes. 

This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom ; 
but,  after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own 
industry  and  frugality  and  prudence,  though  excel 
lent  things ;  for  they  may  all  be  blasted  without  the 
blessing  of  Heaven  ;  and  therefore,  ask  that  blessing 
humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that  at  pres 
ent  seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Re 
member  Job  suffered,  and  was  afterwards  prosperous. 

And  now,  to  conclude,  Experience  keeps  a  dear 
school,  but  fools  will  learn  in  no  other,  and  scarce  in 
that ;  for  it  is  true,  We  may  give  advice,  but  we  can 
not  give  conduct,  as  poor  Richard  says.  However, 
remember  this,  They  that  won't  be  counselled,  can't 
be  helped,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  further,  that,  If 
you  will  not  hear  reason,  she  'II  surely  rap  your 
knuckles. 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  The 
people  heard  it,  and  approved  the  doctrine ;  and  im 
mediately  practised  the  contrary,  just  as  if  it  had  been 
a  common  sermon.  For  the  vendue  opened,  and  they 
began  to  buy  extravagantly,  notwithstanding  all  his 
cautions,  and  their  own  fear  of  taxes.  I  found  the 
good  man  had  thoroughly  studied  my  Almanacs,  and 
digested  all  I  had  dropped  on  those  topics  during  the 
course  of  five-and-twenty  years.  The  frequent  inen- 

1  In  the  Middle  Ages  there  was  a  great  search  made  for  the 
philosopher's  stone,  as  it  was  called,  a  mineral  which  should 
have  the  power  of  turning  base  metals  into  gold. 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  59 

tion  he  made  of  me  must  have  tired  any  one  else  ;  but 
my  vanity  was  wonderfully  delighted  with  it,  though 
I  was  conscious  that  not  a  tenth  part  of  the  wisdom 
was  my  own  which  he  ascribed  to  me,  but  rather  the 
gleanings  that  I  had  made  of  the  sense  of-^all  ages  and 
nations.  However,  I  resolved  to  be  the  better  for  the 
echo  of  it ;  and,  though  I  had  at  first  determined  to 
buy  stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to 
wear  my  old  one  a  little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt 
do  the  same,  thy  profit  will  be  as  great  as  mine.  I 
am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve  thee, 

RICHARD  SAUNDERS. 


FROM  "  POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC,"  1756. 

PLAN  FOR  SAVING  ONE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND 
POUNDS. 

As  I  spent  some  weeks  last  winter  in  visiting  my 
old  acquaintance  in  the  Jerseys,  great  complaints  I 
heard  for  want  of  money,  and  that  leave  to  make 
more  paper  bills  could  not  be  obtained.  Friends  and 
countrymen,  my  advice  on  this  head  shall  cost  you 
nothing ;  and,  if  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for 
giving  it,  I  promise  you  not  to  be  offended  if  you  do 
not  take  it. 

You  spend  yearly  at  least  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds,  it  is  said,  in  European,  East-Indian,  and 
West-Indian  commodities.  Suppose  one  half  of  this 
expense  to  be  in  things  absolutely  necessary,  the  other 
half  may  be  called  superfluities,  or,  at  best,  conven- 
iencies,  which,  however,  you  might  live  without  for 
one  little  year,  and  not  suffer  exceedingly.  Now,  to 
save  this  half,  observe  these  few  directions :  — 


60  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

1.  When  you  incline  to  have  new  clothes,  look  first 
well  over  the  old  ones,  and  see  if  you  cannot  shift  with 
them  another  year,  either   by  scouring,  mending,  or 
even  patching  if  necessary.     Eemember,  a  patch  on 
your  coat,  and  money  in  your  pocket,  is  better  and 
more  creditable  than  a  writ  on  your  back,  and  no 
money  to  take  it  off. 

2.  When  you  are  inclined  to   buy  China   ware, 
chintzes,  India  silks,  or  any  other  of  their  flimsy,  slight 
manufactures,  I  would  not  be  so  bad  with  you  as  to  in 
sist  on  your  absolutely  resolving  against  it ;  all  I  ad 
vise  is,  to  put  it  off  (as  you  do  your  repentance)  till 
another  year  ;  and  this,  in  some  respects,  may  prevent 
au  occasion  of  repentance. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  was  born  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  August  29,  1809.  The  house  in  which  he 
was  born  stood  between  the  sites  now  occupied  by  the  Hem- 
enway  Gymnasium  and  the  Law  School  of  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  and  was  of  historic  interest  as  having  been  the  head 
quarters  of  General  Artemas  Ward,  and  of  the  Committee 
of  Safety  in  the  days  just  before  the  Revolution.  Upon 
the  steps  of  the  house  stood  President  Langdon,  of  Har 
vard  College,  tradition  says,  and  prayed  for  the  men  who, 
halting  there  a  few  moments,  marched  forward  under  Colo 
nel  Prescott's  lead  to  throw  up  intrenchments  on  Bunker 
Hill  on  the  night  of  June  16,  1775.  Dr.  Holmes's  father 
carried  forward  the  traditions  of  the  old  house,  for  he  was 
Rev.  Dr.  Abiel  Holmes,  whose  American  Annals  was  the 
first  careful  record  of  American  history  written  after  the 
Revolution. 

Born  and  bred  in  the  midst  of  historic  associations, 
Holmes  had  from  the  first  a  lively  interest  in  American  his 
tory  and  politics,  and  though  possessed  of  strong  humorous 
gifts  often  turned  his  song  into  patriotic  channels,  while 
the  current  of  his  literary  life  was  distinctly  American. 

He  began  to  write  poetry  when  in  college  at  Cambridge, 
and  some  of  his  best-known  early  pieces,  like  Evening,  by  a 
Tailor,  The  Meeting  of  the  Dryads,  The  Spectre  Pig,  were 
contributed  to  the  Collegian,  an  undergraduate  journal,  while 
he  was  studying  law  the  year  after  his  graduation.  At  the 


62  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

same  time  lie  wrote  the  well-known  poem  Old  Ironsides,  a 
protest  against  the  proposed  breaking  up  of  the  frigate  Con 
stitution;  the  poem  was  printed  in  the  Boston  Daily  Adver 
tiser,  and  its  indignation  and  fervor  carried  it  through  the 
country,  and  raised  such  a  popular  feeling  that  the  ship  was 
saved  from  an  ignominious  destruction.  Holmes  shortly 
gave  up  the  study  of  law,  went  abroad  to  study  medicine, 
and  returned  to  take  his  degree  at  Harvard  in  1836.  At 
the  same  time  he  delivered  a  poem,  Poetry :  a  Metrical 
Essay,  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard,  and 
ever  afterward  his  profession  of  medicine  and  his  love  of 
literature  received  his  united  care  and  thought.  In  1838 
he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  at 
Dartmouth  College,  but  remained  there  only  a  year  or  two, 
when  he  returned  to  Boston,  married,  and  practised  medi 
cine.  In  1847  he  was  made  Parkman  Professor  of  Anat 
omy  and  Physiology  in  the  Medical  School  of  Harvard  Col 
lege,  a  position  which  he  retained  until  the  close  of  1882, 
when  he  retired,  to  devote  himself  more  exclusively  to  liter 
ature. 

In  1857,  when  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  established, 
Professor  Lowell,  who  was  asked  to  be  editor,  consented  on 
condition  that  Dr.  Holmes  should  be  a  regular  contributor. 
Dr.  Holmes  at  that  time  was  known  as  the  author  of  a  num 
ber  of  poems  of  grace,  life,  and  wit,  and  he  had  published 
several  professional  papers  and  books,  but  his  brilliancy  as  a 
talker  gave  him  a  strong  local  reputation,  and  Lowell 
shrewdly  guessed  that  he  would  bring  to  the  new  magazine 
a  singularly  fresh  and  unusual  power.  He  was  right,  for 
The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- Table,  beginning  in  the 
first  number,  unquestionably  insured  the  Atlantic  its  early 
success.  The  readers  of  the  day  had  forgotten  that  Holmes, 
twenty-five  years  before,  had  begun  a  series  with  the  same 
title  in  Buckingham's  New  England  Magazine,  a  periodi 
cal  of  short  life,  so  they  did  not  at  first  understand  why  he 
should  begin  his  first  article,  "  I  was  just  going  to  say  when 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  63 

I  was  interrupted."  From  that  time  Dr.  Holmes  was  a 
frequent  contributor  to  the  magazine,  and  in  it  appeared 
successively,  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,  The  Pro 
fessor  at  the  Breakfast- Table,  The  Professor's  Story  (after 
ward  called  Elsie  Venner),  The  Guardian  Angel,  The  Poet 
at  the  Breakfast-Table,The  New  Portfolio  (afterward  called 
A  Mortal  Antipathy),  Our  Hundred  Days  in  Europe,  and 
Over  the  Teacups,  —  prose  papers  and  stories  with  occa 
sional  insertion  of  verse ;  here  also  were  first  printed  the 
many  poems  which  he  wrote  so  freely  and  so  happily  for 
festivals  and  public  occasions,  including  the  frequent  poems 
at  the  yearly  meetings  of  his  college  class.  The  wit  and 
humor  which  have  made  his  poetry  so  well  known  would 
never  have  given  him  his  high  rank  had  they  not  been  asso 
ciated  with  an  admirable  art  which  makes  every  word  ne 
cessary  and  felicitous,  and  a  generous  nature  which  is  quick 
to  seize  upon  what  touches  a  common  life. 

Dr.  Holmes  died  at  his  home  in  Boston  October  7,  1894. 
His  life  has  been  written  by  his  wife's  nephew,  John  T. 
Morse,  Jr.,  and  is  published  under  the  title  Life  and  Letters 
of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 
BATTLE. 

AS  SHE   SAW   IT   FROM  THE   BELFRY. 

[This  poem  was  first  published  in  1875,  in  connection 
with  the  centenary  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  The  bel 
fry  could  hardly  have  been  that  of  Christ  Church,  since  tra 
dition  says  that  General  Gage  was  stationed  there  watching 
the  battle,  and  we  may  make  it  to  be  what  was  known  as 
the  New  Brick  Church,  built  in  1721,  on  Hanover,  corner 
of  Richmond  Street,  Boston,  rebuilt  of  stone  in  1845,  and 
pulled  down  at  the  widening  of  Hanover  Street  in  1871. 
There  are  many  narratives  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 
Frothingham's  History  of  the  Siege  of  Boston  is  one  of  the 
most  comprehensive  accounts,  and  has  furnished  material 
for  many  popular  narratives.  The  centennial  celebration 
of  the  battle  called  out  magazine  and  newspaper  articles, 
which  give  the  story  with  little  variation.  There  are  not 
many  disputed  points  in  connection  with  the  event,  the  prin 
cipal  one  being  the  discussion  as  to  who  was  the  chief 
officer.] 

T  IS  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty,  one 

remembers 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "  the  times  that 

tried  men's  souls ;  " 

2.  In  December,  1776,  Thomas  Paine,  whose  Common  Sense  had 
BO  remarkable  a  popularity  as  the  first  homely  expression  of 
public  opinion  on  Independence,  began  issuing  a  series  of  tracts 
called  The  Crisis,  eighteen  numbers  of  which  appeared.  The  fa 
miliar  words  quoted  by  the  grandmother  must  often  have  been 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  65 

When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell  the  Rebel 
story, 

To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they  're  burn 
ing  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  running 

battle ;  s 

Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats 

still; 
But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up 

before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the  slopes  of 

Bunker's  Hill. 

heard  and  used  by  her.  They  begin  the  first  number  of  The 
Crisis :  "  These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls  :  the  summer 
soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink  from 
the  service  of  his  country  ;  but  he  that  stands  it  NOW  deserves 
the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman." 

3.  The  terms  Whig  and  Tory  were  applied  to  the  two  parties 
in  England  who  represented,  respectively,  the  Whigs  political 
and  religious  liberty,  the  Tories  royal  prerogative  and  ecclesias 
tical  authority.  The  names  first  came  into  use  in  1679  in  the 
struggles  at  the  close  of  Charles  II. 's  reign,  and  continued  in  use 
until  a  generation  or  so  ago,  when  they  gave  place  to  somewhat 
corresponding  terms  of  Liberal  and  Conservative.  At  the  break 
ing  out  of  the  war  for  Independence,  the  Whigs  in  England  op 
posed  tjie  measures  taken  by  the  crown  in  the  management  of 
the  American  colonies,  while  the  Tories  supported  the  crown. 
The  names  were  naturally  applied  in  America  to  the  patriotic 
party,  who  were  termed  Whigs,  and  the  loyalist  party,  termed 
Tories.  The  Tories  in  turn  called  the  patriots  rebels. 

5.  The  Lexington  and  Concord  affair  of  April  19,  1775,  when 
Lord  Percy's  soldiers  retreated  in  a  disorderly  manner  to 
Charlestown,  annoyed  on  the  way  by  the  Americans  who  fol 
lowed  and  accompanied  them. 


66  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

'T  was  a  peaceful  summer's  morning,  when  the  first 

thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and 

the  shore :  10 

"  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what 's  the  matter,  what  is 

all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder  us 

once  more  ?  " 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst  of 
all  my  quaking, 

To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to 
roar: 

She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter 
and  the  pillage,  w 

When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with  their  bul 
lets  through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "  Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't  you  fret 

and  worry  any, 
For  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this  is 

work  or  play ; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be  gone  a 

minute  "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was  gone  the  livelong 

day.  .        20 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grima 
cing; 

16.  The  Mohawks,  a  formidable  part  of  the  Six  Nations,  were 
held  in  great  dread,  as  they  were  the  most  cruel  and  warlike  of 
all  the  tribes.  In  connection  with  the  French  they  fell  upon  the 
frontier  settlements  during  Queen  Anne's  war,  early  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  committed  terrible  deeds,  long  r»*wen> 
bered  in  New  England  households. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  67 

Down  my  hair  went  as  1  hurried,  tumbling  half-way 
to  my  heels ; 

God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there  's  blood 
around  her  flowing, 

How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  house 
hold  feels  I 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping ;  and  I  knew  it  was 

the  stumping  25 

Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  the  wooden  leg 

he  wore, 
With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was  lucky  I 

had  found  him, 
So  I  followed   with  the   others,   and   the   Corporal 

marched  before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  —  the  old  soldier 
and  his  people ; 

The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed  the  creak 
ing  stair,  30 

Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  Oh,  so  close  it  made 
me  shiver !  — 

Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yesterday  was 
bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we  knew  who  stood 

behind  it, 
Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us,  and  the  stub' 

born  walls  were  dumb  : 
Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild  upon 

each  other,  35 

And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said, 

THE  HOUR  HAS  COME  I 


68  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  morning  slowly   wasted,  not   a  morsel  had  we 

tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  cannons' 

deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart 

strode  sedately ; 
It  was  PKESCOTT,  one  since  told  me ;  he  commanded 

on  the  hill.  49 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we  saw  his 

manly  figure, 
With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,  standing  up  so 

straight  and  tall ; 
Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling  out  for 

pleasure, 
Through  the    storm  of    shells  and   cannon-shot  he 

walked  around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats' 

ranks  were  forming ;  45 

At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the 

piers ; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we  looked 

far  down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the  belted 

grenadiers  ! 

40.  Colonel  William  Prescott,  who  commanded  the  detach 
ment  which  marched  from  Cambridge,  June  16,  1775,  to  fortify 
Breed's  Hill,  was  the  grandfather  of  William  Hickling  Prescott, 
the  historian.  He  was  in  the  field  during  the  entire  battle  of 
the  17th,  in  command  of  the  redoubt. 

42.  Banyan  —  a  flowered  morning  gown  which  Prescott  is  said 
to  have  worn  during  the  hot  day,  a  good  illustration  of  the  un- 
military  appearance  of  the  soldiers  engaged.  His  nonchalant 
walk  upon  the  parapets  is  also  a  historic  fact,  and  was  for  the 
encouragement  of  the  troops  within  the  redoubt. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  69 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it 
seemed  faint-hearted), 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks  on 
their  backs,  so 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea- 
fight's  slaughter, 

Bound  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed  like  blood 
along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they 
formed  in  order ; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  sol 
diers,  soldiers  still : 

The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint  and 
fasting,  —  55 

At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly 
up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the 

lines  advancing  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley  —  they  have  thrown 

away  their  shot ; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above 

them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry ;  so  they  wait  and  answer 

not.  eo 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear 

sometimes  and  tipple),  — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French 

war)  before,  — 

62.  Many  of  the  officers  as  well  as  men  on  the  American  side 
had  become  familiarized  with  service  through  the  old  French 
war,  which  came  to  an  end  in  1763. 


70  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were 
hearing,  — 

And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  bel 
fry  floor :  — 

"  Oh. !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King  George's 
shillin's,  es 

But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  '  rebel '  falls ; 

You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're  as  safe 
as  Dan'l  Malcolm 

Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you've  splin 
tered  with  your  balls  !  " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepidation 

Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  well-nigh 
breathless  all ;  TO 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  bel 
fry  railing, 

"We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves 
against  a  wall. 

67.  Dr.  Holmes  makes  the  following  note  to  this  line  :  "  The 
following  epitaph  is  still  to  be  read  on  a  tall  gravestone,  stand 
ing  as  yet  undisturbed  among  the  transplanted  monuments  of  the 
dead  in  Copp's  Hill  Burial  Ground,  one  of  the  three  city  [Boston] 
cemeteries  which  have  been  desecrated  and  ruined  within  my 
own  remembrance  :  — 

"  Here  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep 
Capt.  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 
Who  departed  this  Life 
October  23,  1769, 
Aged  44  years, 
A  true  son  of  Liberty, 
A  Friend  to  the  Publick, 
An  Enemy  to  oppression, 
And  one  of  the  foremost 
In  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 
On  America." 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  71 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are  nearer, 

—  nearer,  —  nearer, 
When  a  flash  —  a  curling   smoke-wreath  —  then   a 

crash  —  the  steeple  shakes  — 
The  deadly  truce  is  ended ;  the  tempest's  shroud  is 

rended ;  75 

Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

it  breaks ! 

O  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke 

blows  over ! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes 

his  hay ; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd 

is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shivered  into 

spray.  so 

Then  we  cried,  "The  troops  are  routed!   they  are 

beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over !  "  —  Ah  !  the  grim 

old  soldier's  smile ! 
"  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ?  "  (we  could  hardly 

speak  we  shook  so),  — 
"Are  they  beaten?     Are  they  beaten?    ABE  they 

beaten  ?  "  —  "  Wait  a  while." 

O  the  trembling  and  the  terror !  for  too  soon  we  saw 

our  error :  ss 

They  are  baffled,  not  defeated  ;  we  have  driven  them 

back  in  vain ; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the  colors 

that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen  silent  fortress  turn  their  belted 

breasts  again. 


72  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

All  at  once,  as  we  were  gazing,  lo  !  the  roofs  of  Charles- 
town  blazing ! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village ;  in  an  hour  it 
will  be  down  !  90 

The  Lord  in  Heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and 
brimstone  round  them,  — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a 
peaceful  town ! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we  can   see 

each  massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slanting 

walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless 

haste  departed  ?  95 

Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?    Are  they  palsied 

or  asleep  ? 

Now !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under !  scarce  a  rod 

the  foes  asunder ! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them !  up  the  earthwork 

they  will  swarm ! 
But  the  words  have   scarce  been   spoken  when  the 

ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  vengeance 

of  the  storm !  100 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  backwards 

to  the  water, 
Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened  braves 

of  Howe; 

102.  The  generals  on  the  British  side  were  Howe,  Clinton, 
and  Pigot. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  73 

And  we  shout,  "  At  last  they  're  done  for,  it 's  their 

barges  they  have  run  for  : 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten ;  and  the  battle  's  over 


And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough 

old  soldier's  features,  105 

Our   lips  afraid   to  question,  but   he  knew  what  we 

would  ask : 
"Not  sure,"  he  said;  "keep  quiet,  —  once  more,  I 

guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here  's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats  I  " then  he 

handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're  looking  shaky  ;  have  a  drop  of 

Old  Jamaiky ; 
I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore  the  job  is 

done ; "  no 

So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow ;  dreadful  faint  I  felt 

and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing 

was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a  calm 

clock  dial, 
As  the  hands  kept  creeping,   creeping, — they  were 

creeping  round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man  said,  "  They  're  forming  with  their 

bagonets  fixed  for  storming :  us 

It  Js  the  death-grip  that 's  a  coming,  —  they  will  try 

the  works  once  more." 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them 
glaring, 


74  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they 
come ; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  un 
coiling,  — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverberating 
drum !  120 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell  the  fearful 
story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea 
breaks  over  a  deck ; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men 
retreated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swim 
mers  from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted  ;  as  for  me,  they  say 

I  fainted,  125 

And  the  wooden-legged   old   Corporal  stumped  with 

me  down  the  stair : 
When  I  woke   from  dreams  affrighted   the  evening 

lamps  were  lighted,  — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying ;  his  bleeding  breast 

was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "Send  for  WAB- 

REN!  hurry!  hurry! 
Tell  him  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  '11  come 

and  dress  his  wound !  "  130 

Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale  of  death 

and  sorrow, 

129.  Dr.  Joseph  Warren,  of  equal  note  at  the  time  as  a  medi 
cal  man  and  a  patriot.  He  was  a  volunteer  in  the  battle,  and 
fell  there,  the  most  serious  loss  on  the  American  side.  See  pp. 
328,  329. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  75 

How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the  dark 
and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was,  where  the 

place  from  which  he  came  was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left 

him  at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us ;  but 't  was  one  of  our 

brave  fellows,  135 

As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dying 

soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gathered 

round  him  crying,  — 
And  they  said,  "  Oh,  how  they  '11  miss  him  1 "  and, 

"  What  will  his  mother  do  ?  " 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's  that  has 

been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "  Mother ! " and  —  I  saw 

his  eyes  were  blue.  140 

—  "  Why  grandma,  how  you  're  winking ! "  —  Ah,  my 

child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived 

along ; 
So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed  him  like 

a  —  mother, 
Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy-cheeked, 

and  strong. 

i 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the  pleasant 
summer  weather ;  145 

•~" Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?" — Just 
your  own,  my  little  dear, 


76  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

There 's  his  picture  Copley  painted :  we  became  so 

well  acquainted, 
That,  —  in  short,  that 's  why  I  'm  grandma,  and  you 

children  are  all  here ! 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings,  fi 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

"Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell,  10 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  I 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil  U 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

147.  John  Singleton  Copley  was  a  portrait  painter  of  cele 
brity,  who  was  born  in  America  in  1737,  and  painted  many 
famous  portraits,  which  hang  in  private  and  public  galleries  in 
Boston  and  vicinity  chiefly.  He  lived  in  England  the  latter  half 
of  his  life,  dying  there  in  1815. 


OLD  IRONSIDES.  77 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born  25 

Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  my  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll !  so 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 

Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 

OLD  IRONSIDES. 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 

1.  The  famous  frigate  Constitution,  launched  in  Boston  in  1797, 
from  the  site  of  what  is  now  known  as  Constitution  Wharf.  She 
was  built  to  stop  the  depredations  of  Algerine  cors^rs  upon  our 
merchant  marine.  In  the  Mediterranean,  whither  she  sailed  in 
1803,  she  earned  for  herself  the  name  of  "  Old  Ironsides,"  —  a 


78  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES.        , 

Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout,  5 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 

The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe,  10 

When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck  is 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ;  20 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 

name  that  became  famous  after  her  brilliant  record  in  the  War 
of  1812. 

Mr.  John  Fiske,  in  referring  to  President  Monroe's  message 
to  Congress  in  1823  embodying  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  says  :  "  To 
language  of  this  sort  the  exploits  of  Andrew  Jackson  and  of 
'  Old  Ironsides  '  had  given  a  serious  meaning.  Ten  years  earlier 
all  Europe  would  have  laughed  at  it." 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

IT  was  Hawthorne's  wont  to  keep  note-books,  in  which  he 
recorded  his  observations  and  reflections;  sometimes  he 
spoke  in  them  of  himself,  his  plans,  and  his  prospects.  He 
began  the  practice  early,  and  continued  it  through  life ;  and 
after  his  death  selections  from  these  note-books  were  pub 
lished  in  six  volumes,  under  the  titles :  Passages  from  the 
American  Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Haivthorne,  Passages 
from  the  English  Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
and  Passages  from  the  French  and  Italian  Note-Books  of 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  In  these  books,  and  in  prefaces 
which  appear  in  the  front  of  the  volumes  containing  his  col 
lected  stories,  one  finds  many  frank  expressions  of  the  interest 
which  Hawthorne  took  in  his  work,  and  the  author  appeals 
very  ingenuously  to  the  reader,  speaking  with  an  almost 
confidential  closeness  of  his  stories  and  sketches.  Then  the 
Note-Books  contain  the  unwrought  material  of  the  booka 
which  the  writer  put  out  in  his  lifetime.  One  finds  there 
the  suggestions  of  stories,  and  frequently  pages  of  observa 
tion  and  reflection,  which  were  afterward  transferred,  almost 
as  they  stood,  into  the  author's  works.  It  is  very  interesting 
labor  to  trace  Hawthorne's  stories  and  sketches  back  to 
these  records  in  his  note-books,  and  to  compare  the  finished 
work  with  the  rough  material.  It  seems,  also,  as  if  each 
reader  was  admitted  into  the  privacy  of  the  author's  mind. 
That  is  the  first  impression,  but  a  closer  study  reveals  two 


80  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

facts  very  clearly.  One  is  stated  by  Hawthorne  himself  in 
his  preface  to  The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice-Told 
Tales:  "I  have  been  especially  careful  [in  my  Introduc 
tions]  to  make  no  disclosures  respecting  myself  which  the 
most  indifferent  observer  might  not  have  been  acquainted 
with,  and  which  I  was  not  perfectly  willing  that  my  worst 
enemy  should  know.  ...  I  have  taken  facts  which  relate 
to  myself  [when  telling  stories]  because  they  chance  to  be 
nearest  at  hand,  and  likewise  are  my  own  property.  And, 
as  for  egotism,  a  person  who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his 
utmost  ability,  into  the  depths  of  our  common  nature  for  the 
purposes  of  psychological  romance  —  and  who  pursues  his 
researches  in  that  dusky  region,  as  he  needs  must,  as  well  by 
the  tact  of  sympathy  as  by  the  light  of  observation  —  will 
smile  at  incurring  such  an  imputation  in  virtue  of  a  little 
preliminary  talk  about  his  external  habits,  his  abode,  his 
casual  associates,  and  other  matters  entirely  upon  the  sur 
face.  These  things  hide  the  man  instead  of  displaying  him. 
You  must  make  quite  another  kind  of  inquest,  and  look 
through  the  whole  range  of  his  fictitious  characters,  good 
and  evil,  in  order  to  detect  any  of  his  essential  traits." 

There  has  rarely  been  a  writer  of  fiction,  then,  whose  per 
sonality  has  been  so  absolutely  separate  from  that  of  each 
character  created  by  him,  and  at  the  same  time  has  so  inti 
mately  penetrated  the  whole  body  of  his  writing.  Of  no 
one  of  his  characters,  male  or  female,  is  one  ever  tempted 
to  say,  This  is  Hawthorne,  except  in  the  case  of  Miles  Cov- 
erdale  in  The  Blithedale  Romance,  where  the  circumstances 
of  the  story  tempt  one  into  an  identification ;  yet  all  Haw 
thorne's  work  is  stamped  emphatically  with  his  mark. 
Hawthorne  wrote  it,  is  very  simple  and  easy  to  say  of  all 
but  the  merest  trifle  in  his  collected  works ;  but  the  world 
has  yet  to  learn  who  Hawthorne  was,  and  even  if  he  had 
not  forbidden  a  biography  of  himself,  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that  any  Life  could  have  disclosed  more  than  he  has  chosen 
himself  to  reveal. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  81 

The  advantage  of  this  is  that  it  leaves  the  student  free  to 
concentrate  his  attention  upon  the  writings  rather  than  on 
the  man.  Hawthorne,  in  the  passage  quoted  above,  speaks 
of  himself  as  one  "  who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his  utmost 
ability,  into  the  depths  of  our  common  nature  for  the  pur 
poses  of  psychological  romance  ; "  and  this  states,  as  closely 
as  so  short  a  sentence  can,  the  controlling  purpose  and  end 
of  the  author.  The  vitality  of  Hawthorne's  characters  is 
derived  but  little  from  any  external  description ;  it  resides 
in  the  truthfulness  with  which  they  respond  to  some  perma 
nent  and  controlling  operation  of  the  human  soul.  Looking 
into  his  own  heart,  and  always,  when  studying  others,  in 
search  of  fundamental  rather  than  occasional  motives,  he 
proceeded  to  develop  these  motives  in  conduct  and  life. 
Hence  he  had  &  leaning  toward  the  allegory,  where  human 
figures  are  merely  masks  for  spiritual  activities,  and  some 
times  he  employed  the  simple  allegory,  as  in  The  Celestial 
Railroad.  More  often  in  his  short  stories  he  has  a  spiritual 
truth  to  illustrate,  and  uses  the  simplest,  most  direct  means, 
taking  no  pains  to  conceal  his  purpose,  yet  touching  his 
characters  quietly  or  playfully  with  human  sensibilities,  and 
investing  them  with  just  so  much  real  life  as  answers  the 
purpose  of  the  story.  This  is  exquisitely  done  in  The  Snow- 
Image.  The  consequence  of  this  "burrowing  into  the 
depths  of  our  common  nature  "  has  been  to  bring  much  of 
the  darker  and  concealed  life  into  the  movement  of  his 
stories.  The  fact  of  evil  is  the  terrible  fact  of  life,  and  its 
workings  in  the  human  soul  had  more  interest  for  Hawthorne 
than  the  obvious  physical  manifestations.  Since  his  obser 
vations  are  less  of  the  men  and  women  whom  everybody  sees 
and  recognizes  than  of  the  souls  which  are  hidden  from 
most  eyes,  it  is  not  strange  that  his  stories  should  often  lay 
bare  secrets  of  sin,  and  that  a  somewhat  dusky  light  should 
seem  to  be  the  atmosphere  of  much  of  his  work.  Now  and 
then,  especially  when  dealing  with  childhood,  a  warm,  sunny 
glow  spreads  over  the  pages  of  his  books ;  but  the  reader  must 


82  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

be  prepared  for  the  most  part  to  read  stories  which  lie  in 
the  shadow  of  life. 

There  was  one  class  of  subjects  which  had  a  peculiar  in 
terest  for  Hawthorne,  and  in  a  measure  affected  his  work. 
He  had  a  strong  taste  for  New  England  history,  and  he 
found  in  the  scenes  and  characters  of  that  history  favorable 
material  for  the  representation  of  spiritual  conflict.  He  was 
himself  the  most  New  English  of  New  Englanders,  and 
held  an  extraordinary  sympathy  with  the  very  soil  of  his 
section  of  the  country.  By  this  sympathy,  rather  than  by 
any  painful  research,  he  was  singularly  acquainted  with  the 
historic  life  of  New  England.  His  stories,  based  directly 
on  historic  facts,  are  true  to  the  spirit  of  the  times  in  some 
thing  more  than  an  archaeological  way.  One  is  astonished 
at  the  ease  with  which  he  seized  upon  characteristic  fea 
tures,  and  reproduced  them  in  a  word  or  phrase.  Merely 
careful  and  diligent  research  would  never  be  adequate  to 
give  the  life-likeness  of  the  images  in  Howe's  Masquerade. 

There  is,  then,  a  second  fact  discovered  by  a  study  of 
Hawthorne,  that  while  one  finds  in  the  Note-Books,  for  ex 
ample,  the  material  out  of  which  stories  and  sketches  seem 
to  have  been  constructed,  and  while  the  facts  of  New  Eng 
land  history  have  been  used  without  exaggeration  or  distor 
tion,  the  result  in  stories  and  romances  is  something  far  be 
yond  a  mere  report  of  what  has  been  seen  and  read.  The 
charm  of  a  vivifying  imagination  is  the  crowning  charm  of 
Hawthorne's  stories,  and  its  medium  is  a  graceful  and  often 
exquisitely  apt  diction.  Hawthorne's  sense  of  touch  as  a 
writer  is  very  fine.  He  knows  when  to  be  light,  and  when 
to  press  heavily ;  a  very  conspicuous  quality  is  what  one 
is  likely  to  term  quaintness,  —  a  gentle  pleasantry  which 
seems  to  spring  from  the  author's  attitude  toward  his  own 
work,  as  if  he  looked  upon  that,  too,  as  a  part  of  the  spirit 
ual  universe  which  he  was  surveying. 

Hawthorne  spent  much  of  his  life  silently,  and  there  are 
touching  passages  in  his  note-books  regarding  his  sense  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  83 

loneliness  and  his  wish  for  recognition  from  the  world.  His 
early  writings  were  short  stories,  sketches,  and  biographies, 
scattered  in  magazines  and  brought  together  into  Twice- 
Told  Tales,  in  two  volumes,  published,  the  first  in  1837, 
the  second  in  1842  ;  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,  in  1846  ; 
The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice- Told  Tales,  in  1851. 
They  had  a  limited  circle  of  readers.  Some  recognized  his 
genius,  but  it  was  not  until  the  publication  of  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  in  1850,  that  Hawthorne's  name  was  fairly  before 
the  world  as  a  great  and  original  writer  of  romance.  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables  followed  in  1851 ;  The  Blithe- 
dale  Romance  in  1852.  He  spent  the  years  1853-1860  in 
Europe,  and  the  immediate  result  of  his  life  there  is  in  Our 
Old  Home :  A  Series  of  English  Sketches,  published  in 
1863  and  The  Marble  Faun,  or  the  Romance  of  Monte 
Beni,  in  1860.  For  young  people  he  wrote  Grandfather's 
Chair,  a  collection  of  stories  from  New  England  history, 
The  Wonder-Book  and  Tanglewood  Tales,  containing 
stories  out  of  classic  mythology.  There  are  a  few  other 
scattered  writings  which  have  been  collected  into  volumes 
and  published  in  the  complete  series  of  his  works. 

Hawthorne  was  born  July  4,  1804,  and  died  May  19, 
1864. 

The  student  of  Hawthorne  will  find  in  G.  P.  Lathrop's 
A  Study  of  Hawthorne.,  and  Henry  James,  Jr.'s  Hawthorne, 
in  the  series  English  Men  of  Letters,  material  which  will 
assist  him.  Dr.  Holmes  published,  shortly  after  Haw 
thorne's  death,  a  paper  of  reminiscences  which  is  included 
in  Soundings  from  the  Atlantic  ;  and  Longfellow  welcomed 
Twice- Told  Tales  with  a  glowing  article  in  the  North 
American  Review,  xlviii.  59,  which  is  reproduced  in  his 
prose  works.  The  reader  will  find  it  an  agreeable  task  to 
discover  what  the  poets,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Stedman,  and 
others,  have  said  of  this  man  of  genius. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 

ONE  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going  down,  a 
mother  and  her  little  boy  sat  at  the  door  of  their  cot 
tage,  talking  about  the  Great  Stone  Face.  They  had 
but  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  there  it  was  plainly  to  be 
seen,  though  miles  away,  with  the  sunshine  brighten 
ing  all  its  features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face  ? 

Embosomed  amongst  a  family  of  lofty  mountains 
there  was  a  valley  so  spacious  that  it  contained  many 
thousand  inhabitants.  Some  of  these  good  people 
dwelt  in  log  huts,  with  the  black  forest  all  around 
them,  on  the  steep  and  difficult  hillsides.  Others  had 
their  homes  in  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  culti 
vated  the  rich  soil  on  the  gentle  slopes  or  level  surfaces 
of  the  valley.  Others,  again,  were  congregated  into 
populous  villages,  where  some  wild,  highland  rivulet, 
tumbling  down  from  its  birthplace  in  the  upper  moun 
tain  region,  had  been  caught  and  tamed  by  human  cun 
ning  and  compelled  to  turn  the  machinery  of  cotton- 
factories.  The  inhabitants  of  this  valley,  in  short,  were 
numerous,  and  of  many  modes  of  life.  But  all  of 
them,  grown  people  and  children,  had  a  kind  of  fa 
miliarity  with  the  Great  Stone  Face,  although  some 
possessed  the  gift  of  distinguishing  this  grand  natural 
phenomenon  more  perfectly  than  many  of  their  neigh 
bors. 

The  Great  Stone  Face,  then,  was  a  work  of  Nature 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  85 

in  her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the 
perpendicular  side  of  a  mountain  by  some  immense 
rooks,  which  had  been  thrown  together  in  such  a  posi 
tion  as,  when  viewed  at  a  proper  distance,  precisely  to 
resemble  the  features  of  the  human  countenance.  It 
seemed  as  if  an  enormous  giant,  or  a  Titan,  had  sculp 
tured  his  own  likeness  on  the  precipice.  There  was 
the  broad  arch  of  the  forehead,  a  hundred  feet  in 
height ;  the  nose,  with  its  long  bridge ;  and  the  vast 
lips,  which,  if  they  could  have  spoken,  would  have 
rolled  their  thunder  accents  from  one  end  of  the  val 
ley  to  the  other.  True  it  is,  that  if  the  spectator 
approached  too  near  he  lost  the  outline  of  the  gigantic 
visage,  and  could  discern  only  a  heap  of  ponderous 
and  gigantic  rocks,  piled  in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon 
another.  Retracing  his  steps,  however,  the  wondrous 
features  would  again  be  seen ;  and  the  farther  he  with 
drew  from  them,  the  more  like  a  human  face,  with  all 
its  original  divinity  intact,  did  they  appear ;  until,  as 
it  grew  dim  in  the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glori 
fied  vapor  of  the  mountains  clustering  about  it,  the 
Great  Stone  Face  seemed  positively  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up  to  man 
hood  or  womanhood  with  the  Great  Stone  Face  before 
their  eyes,  for  all  the  features  were  noble,  and  the 
expression  was  at  once  grand  and  sweet,  as  if  it  were 
the  glow  of  a  vast,  warm  heart,  that  embraced  all 
mankind  in  its  affections,  and  had  room  for  more.  It 
was  an  education  only  to  look  at  it.  According  to  the 
belief  of  many  people,  the  valley  owed  much  of  its 
fertility  to  this  benign  aspect  that  was  continually 
beaming  over  it,  illuminating  the  clouds,  and  infusing 
its  tenderness  into  the  sunshine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a  mother  and  her  little 


86  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

boy  sat  at  their  cottage-door,  gazing  at  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  and  talking  about  it.  The  child's  name 
was  Ernest. 

44  Mother,"  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage  smiled 
or.  him,  "  I  wish  that  it  could  speak,  for  it  looks  so 
very  kindly  that  its  voice  must  needs  be  pleasant.  If 
I  were  to  see  a  man  with  such  a  face,  1  should  love 
Him  dearly." 

"  If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass,"  an 
swered  his  mother,  "  we  may  see  a  man,  some  time  or 
other,  with  exactly  such  a  face  as  that." 

"  What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear  mother  ? " 
eagerly  inquired  Ernest.  "Pray  tell  me  all  about 
it!"  ' 

So  his  mother  told  him  a  story  that  her  own  mother 
had  told  to  her,  when  she  herself  was  younger  than 
little  Ernest ;  a  story,  not  of  things  that  were  past, 
but  of  what  was  yet  to  come ;  a  story,  nevertheless, 
so  very  old,  that  even  the  Indians,  who  formerly 
inhabited  this  valley,  had  heard  it  from  their  fore 
fathers,  to  whom,  as  they  affirmed,  it  had  been  mur 
mured  by  the  mountain  streams,  and  whispered  by 
the  wind  among  the  tree-tops.  The  purport  was, 
that,  at  some  future  day,  a  child  should  be  born  here 
abouts,  who  was  destined  to  become  the  greatest  and 
noblest  personage  of  his  time,  and  whose  countenance, 
in  manhood,  should  bear  an  exact  resemblance  to  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  Not  a  few  old-fashioned  people,  and 
young  ones  likewise,  in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes,  still 
cherished  an  enduring  faith  in  this  old  prophecy.  But 
others,  who  had  seen  more  of  the  world,  had  watched 
and  waited  till  they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no 
man  with  such  a  face,  nor  any  man  that  proved  to  be 
much  greater  or  nobler  than  his  neighbors,  concluded 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       87 

it  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle  tale.  At  all  events,  the 
great  man  of  the  prophecy  had  not  yet  appeared. 

"  O  mother,  dear  mother !  "  cried  Ernest,  clapping 
his  hands  above  his  head,  "  I  do  hope  that  I  shall  live 
to  see  him  !  " 

His  mother  was  an  affectionate  and  thoughtful 
woman,  and  felt  that  it  was  wisest  not  to  discourage 
the  generous  hopes  of  her  little  boy.  So  she  only  said 
to  him,  "  Perhaps  you  may." 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his  mother 
told  him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind,  whenever  he 
looked  upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  He  spent  his 
childhood  in  the  log  cottage  where  he  was  born,  and 
was  dutiful  to  his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in  many 
things,  assisting  her  much  with  his  little  hands,  and 
more  with  his  loving  heart.  In  this  manner,  from  a 
happy  yet  often  pensive  child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a 
mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive  boy,  and  sun-browned  with 
labor  in  the  fields,  but  with  more  intelligence  bright 
ening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in  many  lads  who  have 
been  taught  at  famous  schools.  Yet  Ernest  had  had 
no  teacher,  save  only  that  the  Great  Stone  Face  be 
came  one  to  him.  When  the  toil  of  the  day  was  over, 
he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he  began  to 
imagine  that  those  vast  features  recognized  him,  and 
gave  him  a  smile  of  kindness  and  encouragement, 
responsive  to  his  own  look  of  veneration.  We  must 
not  take  upon  us  to  affirm  that  this  was  a  mistake, 
although  the  face  may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at 
Ernest  than  at  all  the  world  besides.  But  the  secret 
was,  that  the  boy's  tender  and  confiding  simplicity 
discerned  what  other  people  could  not  see ;  and  thus 
the  love,  which  was  meant  for  all,  became  his  peculiar 
portion. 


88  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

About  this  time  there  went  a  rumor  throughout  the 
valley,  that  the  great  man,  foretold  from  ages  long 
ago,  who  was  to  bear  a  resemblance  to  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems  that, 
many  years  before,  a  young  man  had  migrated  from 
the  valley  and  settled  at  a  distant  seaport,  where, 
after  getting  together  a  little  money,  he  had  set  up  as 
a  shopkeeper.  His  name  —  but  I  could  never  learn 
whether  it  was  his  real  one,  or  a  nickname  that  had 
grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success  in  life  —  was 
Gathergold.  Being  shrewd  and  active,  and  endowed 
by  Providence  with  that  inscrutable  faculty  which 
develops  itself  in  what  the  world  calls  luck,  he  became 
an  exceedingly  rich  merchant,  and  owner  of  a  whole 
fleet  of  bulky-bottomed  ships.  All  the  countries  of 
the  globe  appeared  to  join  hands  for  the  mere  purpose 
of  adding  heap  after  heap  to  the  mountainous  accu 
mulation  of  this  one  man's  wealth.  The  cold  regions 
of  the  north,  almost  within  the  gloom  and  shadow  of 
the  Arctic  Circle,  sent  him  their  tribute  in  the  shape 
of  furs ;  hot  Africa  sifted  for  him  the  golden  sands  of 
her  rivers,  and  gathered  up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her 
great  elephants  out  of  the  forests ;  the  East  came 
bringing  him  the  rich  shawls,  and  spices,  and  teas, 
and  the  effulgence  of  diamonds,  and  the  gleaming 
purity  of  large  pearls.  The  ocean,  not  to  be  behind 
hand  with  the  earth,  yielded  up  her  mighty  whales, 
that  Mr.  Gathergold  might  sell  their  oil,  and  make  a 
profit  on  it.  Be  the  original  commodity  what  it 
might,  it  was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be 
said  of  him,  as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  whatever 
he  touched  with  his  finger  immediately  glistened,  and 
grew  yellow,  and  was  changed  at  once  into  sterling 
metal,  or,  which  suited  him  still  better,  into  piles  of 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        89 

coin.  And,  when  Mr.  Gathergold  had  become  so  very 
rich  that  it  would  have  taken  him  a  hundred  years 
only  to  count  his  wealth,  he  bethought  himself  of  his 
native  valley,  and  resolved  to  go  back  thither,  and 
end  his  days  where  he  was  born.  With  this  purpose 
in  view,  he  sent  a  skilful  architect  to  build  him  such  a 
palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a  man  of  his  vast  wealth  to 
live  in. 

As  I  have  said  above,  it  had  already  been  rumored 
in  the  valley  that  Mr.  Gathergold  had  turned  out  to 
be  the  prophetic  personage  so  long  and  vainly  looked 
for,  and  that  his  visage  was  the  perfect  and  undeniable 
similitude  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  People  were  the 
more  ready  to  believe  that  this  must  needs  be  the  fact, 
when  they  beheld  the  splendid  edifice  that  rose,  as  if  by 
enchantment,  on  the  site  of  his  father's  old  weather- 
beaten  farmhouse.  The  exterior  was  of  marble,  so 
dazzlingly  white  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole 
structure  might  melt  away  in  the  sunshine,  like  those 
humbler  ones  which  Mr.  Gathergold,  in  his  young 
play-days,  before  his  fingers  were  gifted  with  the  touch 
of  transmutation,  had  been  accustomed  to  build  of 
snow^  It  had  a  richly  ornamented  portico,  supported 
by  tall  pillars,  beneath  which  was  a  lofty  door,  studded 
with  silver  knobs,  and  made  of  a  kind  of  variegated 
wood  that  had  been  brought  from  beyond  the  sea. 
The  windows,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  of  each 
stately  apartment,  were  composed,  respectively,  of  but 
one  enormous  pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  pure  that 
it  was  said  to  be  a  finer  medium  than  even  the  vacant 
atmosphere.  Hardly  anybody  had  been  permitted  to 
see  the  interior  of  this  palace ;  but  it  was  reported, 
and  with  good  semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more 
gorgeous  than  the  outside,  insomuch  that  whatever 


90  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

was  iron  or  brass  in  other  houses  was  silver  or  gold  in 
this ;  and  Mr.  Gathergold's  bedchamber,  especially, 
made  such  a  glittering  appearance  that  no  ordinary 
man  would  have  been  able  to  close  his  eyes  there. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Gathergold  was  now  so 
inured  to  wealth,  that  perhaps  he  could  not  have 
closed  his  eyes  unless  where  the  gleam  of  it  was  cer 
tain  to  find  its  way  beneath  his  eyelids. 

In  due  time,  the  mansion  was  finished  ;  next  came 
the  upholsterers,  with  magnificent  furniture;  then  a 
whole  troop  of  black  and  white  servants,  the  harbin 
gers  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  who,  in  his  own  majestic  per 
son,  was  expected  to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend 
Ernest,  meanwhile,  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the 
idea  that  the  great  man,  the  noble  man,  the  man  of 
prophecy,  after  so  many  ages  of  delay,  was  at  length 
to  be  made  manifest  to  his  native  valley.  He  knew, 
boy  as  he  was,  that  there  were  a  thousand  ways  in 
which  Mr.  Gathergold,  with  his  vast  wealth,  might 
transform  himself  into  an  angel  of  beneficence,  and 
assume  a  control  over  human  affairs  as  wide  and  be 
nignant  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Full 
of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  doubted  not  that  what  the 
people  said  was  true,  and  that  now  he  was  to  behold 
the  living  likeness  of  those  wondrous  features  on  the 
mountain-side.  While  the  boy  was  still  gazing  up  the 
valley,  and  fancying,  as  he  always  did,  that  the  Great 
Stone  Face  returned  his  gaze  and  looked  kindly  at 
him,  the  rumbling  of  wheels  was  heard,  approaching 
swiftly  along  the  winding  road. 

"  Here  he  comes  !  "  cried  a  group  of  people  who 
were  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival.  "  Here  comes 
the  great  Mr.  Gathergold  !  " 

A  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses  dashed  round  the 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  91 

turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust  partly  out  of  the 
window,  appeared  the  physiognomy  of  a  little  old 
man,  with  a  skin  as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas-hand 
had  transmuted  it.  He  had  a  low  forehead,  small, 
sharp  eyes,  puckered  about  with  innumerable  wrinkles, 
and  very  thin  lips,  which  he  made  still  thinner  by 
pressing  them  forcibly  together. 

"  The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face ! " 
shouted  the  people.  "  Sure  enough,  the  old  prophecy 
is  true;  and  here  we  have  the  great  man  come,  at 
last !  " 

And,  what  greatly  perplexed  Ernest,  they  seemed 
actually  to  believe  that  here  was  the  likeness  which 
they  spoke  of.  By  the  roadside  there  chanced  to  be 
an  old  beggar-woman  and  two  little  beggar-children, 
stragglers  from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  the  car 
riage  rolled  onward,  held  out  their  hands  and  lifted 
up  their  doleful  voices,  most  piteously  beseeching 
charity.  A  yellow  claw  —  the  very  same  that  had 
clawed  together  so  much  wealth  —  poked  itself  out  of 
the  coach-window,  and  dropped  some  copper  coins 
upon  the  ground ;  so  that,  though  the  great  man's 
name  seems  to  have  been  Gathergold,  he  might  just 
as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed  Scattercopper.  Still, 
nevertheless,  with  an  earnest  shout,  and  evidently  with 
as  much  good  faith  as  ever,  the  people  bellowed,  — 

"  He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face !  " 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled  shrewd 
ness  of  that  sordid  visage,  and  gazed  up  the  valley, 
where,  amid  a  gathering  mist,  gilded  by  the  last  sun 
beams,  he  could  still  distinguish  those  glorious  features 
which  had  impressed  themselves  into  his  soul.  Their 
aspect  cheered  him.  What  did  the  benign  lips  seem 
to  say  ? 


92  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  He  will  come  !  Fear  not,  Ernest ;  the  man  will 
come ! " 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 
He  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man  now.  He  attracted 
little  notice  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  valley ; 
for  they  saw  nothing  remarkable  in  his  way  of  life, 
save  that,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  over,  he  still 
loved  to  go  apart  and  gaze  and  meditate  upon  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  According  to  their  idea  of  the 
matter,  it  was  a  folly,  indeed,  but  pardonable,  inas 
much  as  Ernest  was  industrious,  kind,  and  neigh 
borly,  and  neglected  no  duty  for  the  sake  of  indulging 
this  idle  habit.  They  knew  not  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  become  a  teacher  to  him,  and  that  the  senti 
ment  which  was  expressed  in  it  would  enlarge  the 
young  man's  heart,  and  fill  it  with  wider  and  deeper 
sympathies  than  other  hearts.  They  knew  not  that 
thence  would  come  a  better  wisdom  than  could  be 
learned  from  books,  and  a  better  life  than  could  be 
moulded  on  the  defaced  example  of  other  human  lives. 
Neither  did  Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affec 
tions  which  came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields 
and  at  the  fireside,  and  wherever  he  communed  with 
himself,  were  of  a  higher  tone  than  those  which  all 
men  shared  with  him.  A  simple  soul,  —  simple  as 
when  his  mother  first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy,  — 
he  beheld  the  marvellous  features  beaming  adown  the 
valley,  and  still  wondered  that  their  human  counter 
part  was  so  long  in  making  his  appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead  and 
buried ;  and  the  oddest  part  of  the  matter  was,  that 
his  wealth,  which  was  the  body  and  spirit  of  his  ex 
istence,  had  disappeared  before  his  death,  leaving 
nothing  of  him  but  a  living  skeleton,  covered  over 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       93 

with  a  wrinkled,  yellow  skin.  Since  the  melting  away 
of  his  gold,  it  had  been  very  generally  conceded  that 
there  was  no  such  striking  resemblance,  after  all,  be 
twixt  the  ignoble  features  of  the  ruined  merchant  and 
that  majestic  face  upon  the  mountain-side.  So  the 
people  ceased  to  honor  him  during  his  lifetime,  and 
quietly  consigned  him  to  forgetfulness  after  his  de 
cease.  Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true,  his  memory  was 
brought  up  in  connection  with  the  magnificent  palace 
which  he  had  built,  and  which  had  long  ago  been 
turned  into  a  hotel  for  the  accommodation  of  stran 
gers,  multitudes  of  whom  came  every  summer  to  visit 
that  famous  natural  curiosity,  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Thus,  Mr.  Gathergold  being  discredited  and  thrown 
into  the  shade,  the  man  of  prophecy  was  yet  to  come. 
It  so  happened  that  a  native-born  son  of  the  val 
ley,  many  years  before,  had  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and, 
after  a  great  deal  of  hard  fighting,  had  now  become  an 
illustrious  commander.  Whatever  he  may  be  called 
in  history,  he  was  known  in  camps  and  on  the  battle 
field  under  the  nickname  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder. 
This  war-worn  veteran,  being  now  infirm  with  age  and 
wounds,  and  weary  of  the  turmoil  of  a  military  life, 
and  of  the  roll  of  the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  the 
trumpet,  that  had  so  long  been  ringing  in  his  ears, 
had  lately  signified  a  purpose  of  returning  to  his 
native  valley,  hoping  to  find  repose  where  he  remem 
bered  to  have  left  it.  The  inhabitants,  his  old  neigh 
bors  and  their  grown-up  children,  were  resolved  to 
welcome  the  renowned  warrior  with  a  salute  of  can 
non  and  a  public  dinner  ;  and  all  the  more  enthusias 
tically,  it  being  affirmed  that  now,  at  last,  the  likeness 
of  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  actually  appeared.  An 
aide-de-camp  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  travelling 


94  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

through  the  valley,  was  said  to  have  been  struck  with 
the  resemblance.  Moreover  the  schoolmates  and 
early  acquaintances  of  the  general  were  ready  to  testify, 
on  oath,  that  to  the  best  of  their  recollection,  the 
aforesaid  general  had  been  exceedingly  like  the  majes 
tic  image,  even  when  a  boy,  only  that  the  idea  had 
never  occurred  to  them  at  that  period.  Great,  there 
fore,  was  the  excitement  throughout  the  valley  ;  and 
many  people,  who  had  never  once  thought  of  glancing* 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face  for  years  before,  now  spent 
their  time  in  gazing  at  it,  for  the  sake  of  knowing 
exactly  how  General  Blood-and-Thunder  looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest,  with  all 
the  other  people  of  the  valley,  left  their  work,  and 
proceeded  to  the  spot  where  the  sylvan  banquet  was 
prepared.  As  he  approached,  the  loud  voice  of  the 
Kev.  Dr.  Battleblast  was  heard,  beseeching  a  blessing 
on  the  good  things  set  before  them,  and  on  the  dis 
tinguished  friend  of  peace  in  whose  honor  they  were 
assembled.  The  tables  were  arranged  in  a  cleared 
space  of  the  woods,  shut  in  by  the  surrounding  trees, 
except  where  a  vista  opened  eastward,  and  afforded 
a  distant  view  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Over  the 
general's  chair,  which  was  a  relic  from  the  home  of 
Washington,  there  was  an  arch  of  verdant  boughs, 
with  the  laurel  profusely  intermixed,  and  surmounted 
by  his  country's  banner,  beneath  which  he  had  won 
his  victories.  Our  friend  Ernest  raised  himself  on 
his  tip-toes,  in  hopes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated 
guest ;  but  there  was  a  mighty  crowd  about  the  tables 
anxious  to  hear  the  toasts  and  speeches,  and  to  catch 
any  word  that  might  fall  from  the  general  in  reply ; 
and  a  volunteer  company,  doing  duty  as  a  guard, 
pricked  ruthlessly  with  their  bayonets  at  any  particu- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       95 

larly  quiet  person  among  the  throng.  So  Ernest, 
being  of  an  unobtrusive  character,  was  thrust  quite 
into  the  background,  where  he  could  see  no  more  of 
Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  physiognomy  than  if  it  had 
been  still  blazing  on  the  battle-field.  To  console  him 
self,  he  turned  towards  the  Great  Stone  Face,  which, 
like  a  faithful  and  long-remembered  friend,  looked 
back  and  smiled  upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the 
forest.  Meantime,  however,  he  could  overhear  the 
remarks  of  various  individuals,  who  were  comparing 
the  features  of  the  hero  with  the  face  on  the  distant 
mountain-side. 

"  'T  is  the  same  face,  to  a  hair ! "  cried  one  man, 
cutting  a  caper  for  joy. 

"  Wonderfully  like,  that 's  a  fact !  "  responded  an 
other. 

"  Like  !  why,  I  call  it  Old  Blood-aiid-Thunder  him 
self  in  a  monstrous  looking-glass ! "  cried  a  third. 
"  And  why  not  ?  He  's  the  greatest  man  of  this  or 
any  other  age,  beyond  a  doubt." 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a  great 
shout,  which  communicated  electricity  to  the  crowd, 
and  called  forth  a  roar  from  a  thousand  voices,  that 
went  reverberating  for  miles  among  the  mountains, 
until  you  might  have  supposed  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  poured  its  thunder-breath  into  the  cry.  All 
these  comments,  and  this  vast  enthusiasm,  served  the 
more  to  interest  our  friend  ;  nor  did  he  think  of  ques 
tioning  that  now,  at  length,  the  mountain-visage  had 
found  its  human  counterpart.  It  is  true,  Ernest  had 
imagined  that  this  long-looked-for  personage  would 
appear  in  the  character  of  a  man  of  peace,  uttering1 
wisdom,  and  doing  good,  and  making  people  happy. 
But,  taking  an  habitual  breadth  of  view,  with  all  his 


96  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

simplicity,  lie  contended  that  Providence  should  choose 
its  own  method  of  blessing  mankind,  and  could  con 
ceive  that  this  great  end  might  be  effected  even  by  a 
warrior  and  a  bloody  sword,  should  inscrutable  wis 
dom  see  fit  to  order  matters  so. 

"  The  general !  the  general ! "  was  now  the  cry. 
w  Hush  !  silence  !  Old  Blood-and-Thunder  's  going 
to  make  a  speech." 

•  Even  so  ;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the  general's 
health  had  been  drunk  amid  shouts  of  applause,  and 
he  now  stood  upon  his  feet  to  thank  the  company. 
Ernest  saw  him.  There  he  was,  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  crowd,  from  the  two  glittering  epaulets  and 
embroidered  collar  upward,  beneath  the  arch  of  green 
boughs  with  intertwined  laurel,  and  the  banner  droop 
ing  as  if  to  shade  his  brow !  And  there,  too,  visible 
in  the  same  glance,  through  the  vista  of  the  forest, 
appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  And  was  there,  in 
deed,  such  a  resemblance  as  the  crowd  had  testified  ? 
Alas,  Ernest  could  not  recognize  it.  He  beheld  a 
war-worn  and  weather-beaten  countenance,  full  of  en 
ergy,  and  expressive  of  an  iron  will ;  but  the  gentle 
•  wisdom,  the  deep,  broad,  tender  sympathies,  were  al 
together  wanting  in  Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  visage ; 
and  even  if  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  assumed  his 
look  of  stern  command,  the  milder  traits  would  still 
have  tempered  it. 

"  This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,"  sighed  Ernest 
to  himself,  as  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  throng. 
"  And  must  the  world  wait  longer  yet  ?  " 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  distant  moun 
tain-side,  and  there  were  seen  the  grand  and  awful 
features  of  the  Great  Stone  Face,  awful  but  benignant, 
as  if  a  mighty  angel  were  sitting  among  the  hills  and 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        97 

enrobing  himself  in  a  cloud- vesture  of  gold  and  pur 
ple.  As  he  looked,  Ernest  could  hardly  believe  but 
that  a  smile  beamed  over  the  whole  visage,  with  a 
radiance  still  brightening,  although  without  motion  of 
the  lips.  It  was  probably  the  effect  of  the  western 
sunshine,  melting  through  the  thinly  diffused  vapors 
that  had  swept  between  him  and  the  object  that  he 
gazed  at.  But  —  as  it  always  did  —  the  aspect  of  his 
marvellous  friend  made  Ernest  as  hopeful  as  if  he 
had  never  hoped  in  vain. 

"  Fear  not,  Ernest,"  said  his  heart,  even  as  if  the 
Great  Face  were  whispering  him,  —  "  fear  not,  Ernest; 
he  will  come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away. 
Ernest  still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now 
a  man  of  middle  age.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  he 
had  become  known  among  the  people.  Now,  as  here 
tofore,  he  labored  for  his  bread,  and  was  the  same 
simple-hearted  man  that  he  had  always  been.  But  he 
had  thought  and  felt  so  much,  he  had  given  so  many 
of  the  best  hours  of  his  life  to  unworldly  hopes  for 
some  great  good  to  mankind,  that  it  seemed  as  though 
he  had  been  talking  with  the  angels,  and  had  imbibed 
a  portion  of  their  wisdom  unawares.  It  was  visible 
in  the  calm  and  well-considered  beneficence  of  his 
daily  life,  the  quiet  stream  of  which  had  made  a  wide 
green  margin  all  along  its  course.  Not  a  day  passed 
by  that  the  world  was  not  the  better  because  this  man, 
humble  as  he  was,  had  lived.  He  never  stepped  aside 
from  his  own  path,  yet  would  always  reach  a  blessing 
to  his  neighbor.  Almost  involuntarily,  too,  he  had 
become  a  preacher.  The  pure  and  high  simplicity  of 
his  thought,  which,  as  one  of  its  manifestations,  took 
shape  in  the  good  deeds  that  dropped  silently  from  his 


98  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

hand,  flowed  also  forth  in  speech.  He  uttered  truths 
that  wrought  upon  and  moulded  the  lives  of  those 
who  heard  him.  His  auditors,  it  may  be,  never  sus 
pected  that  Ernest,  their  own  neighbor  and  familiar 
friend,  was  more  than  an  ordinary  man ;  least  of  all 
did  Ernest  himself  suspect  it ;  but,  inevitably  as  the 
murmur  of  a  rivulet,  came  thoughts  out  of  his  mouth 
that  no  other  human  lips  had  spoken. 

"When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a  little  time  to 
cool,  they  were  ready  enough  to  acknowledge  their 
mistake  in  imagining  a  similarity  between  General 
Blood-and-Thunder's  truculent  physiognomy  and  the 
benign  visage  on  the  mountain-side.  But  now,  again, 
there  were  reports  and  many  paragraphs  in  the  news 
papers,  affirming  that  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  appeared  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  cer 
tain  eminent  statesman.  He,  like  Mr.  Gathergold 
and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  was  a  native  of  the  val 
ley,  but  had  left  it  in  his  early  days,  and  taken  up  the 
trades  of  law  and  politics.  Instead  of  the  rich  man's 
wealth  and  the  warrior's  sword,  he  had  but  a  tongue, 
and  it  was  mightier  than  both  together.  So  wonder 
fully  eloquent  was  he,  that  whatever  he  might  choose 
to  say,  his  auditors  had  no  choice  but  to  believe  him  ; 
wrong  looked  like  right,  and  right  like  wrong ;  for 
when  it  pleased  him  he  could  make  a  kind  of  illu 
minated  fog  with  his  mere  breath,  and  obscure  the 
natural  daylight  with  it.  His  tongue,  indeed,  was  a 
magic  instrument ;  sometimes  it  rumbled  like  the 
thunder  ;  sometimes  it  warbled  like  the  sweetest  music. 
It  was  the  blast  of  war,  —  the  song  of  peace ;  and  it 
seemed  to  have  a  heart  in  it,  when  there  was  no 
such  matter.  In  good  truth,  he  was  a  wondrous  man ; 
and  when  his  tongue  had  acquired  him  all  other  im- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       99 

aginable  success,  —  when  it  had  been  heard  in  halls 
of  state,  and  in  the  courts  of  princes  and  potentates,  — 
after  it  had  made  him  known  all  over  the  world,  even 
as  a  voice  crying  from  shore  to  shore,  —  it  finally  per 
suaded  his  countrymen  to  select  him  for  the  Presi 
dency.  Before  this  time,  —  indeed,  as  soon  as  he  be 
gan  to  grow  celebrated,  —  his  admirers  had  found  out 
the  resemblance  between  him  and  the  Great  Stone 
Face ;  and  so  much  were  they  struck  by  it  that  through 
out  the  country  this  distinguished  gentleman  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Old  Stony  Phiz.  The  phrase 
was  considered  as  giving  a  highly  favorable  aspect  to 
his  political  prospects  ;  for,  as  is  likewise  the  case  with 
the  Popedom,  nobody  ever  becomes  President  without 
taking  a  name  other  than  his  own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to  make 
him  President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he  was  called,  set 
out  on  a  visit  to  the  valley  where  he  was  born.  Of 
course,  he  had  no  other  object  than  to  shake  hands 
with  his  fellow-citizens,  and  neither  thought  nor  cared 
about  any  effect  which  his  progress  through  the  country 
might  have  upon  the  election.  Magnificent  prepara 
tions  were  made  to  receive  the  illustrious  statesman ; 
a  cavalcade  of  horsemen  set  forth  to  meet  him  at  the 
boundary  line  of  the  State,  and  all  the  people  left  their 
business  and  gathered  along  the  wayside  to  see  him 
pass.  Among  these  was  Ernest.  Though  more  than 
once  disappointed,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  such  a 
hopeful  and  confiding  nature,  that  he  was  always 
ready  to  believe  in  whatever  seemed  beautiful  and 
good.  He  kept  his  heart  continually  open,  and  thus 
was  sure  to  catch  the  blessing  from  on  high,  when  it 
should  come.  So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as  ever,  he 
went  forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face. 


100  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the  road,  with 
a  great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  mighty  cloud  of  dust, 
which  rose  up  so  dense  and  high  that  the  visage  of 
the  mountain-side  was  completely  hidden  from  Er 
nest's  eyes.  All  the  great  men  of  the  neighborhood 
were  there  on  horseback ;  militia  officers,  in  uniform ; 
the  member  of  Congress;  the  sheriff  of  the  county; 
<;he  editors  of  newspapers ;  and  many  a  farmer,  too, 
had  mounted  his  patient  steed,  with  his  Sunday  coat 
upon  his  back.  It  really  was  a  very  brilliant  specta 
cle,  especially  as  there  were  numerous  banners  flaunt 
ing  over  the  cavalcade,  on  some  of  which  were  gor 
geous  portraits  of  the  illustrious  statesman  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  smiling  familiarly  at  one  another, 
like  two  brothers.  If  the  pictures  were  to  be  trusted, 
the  mutual  resemblance,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
marvellous.  We  must  not  forget  to  mention  that 
there  was  a  band  of  music,  which  made  the  echoes  of 
the  mountains  ring  and  reverberate  with  the  loud 
triumph  of  its  strains ;  so  that  airy  and  soul-thrilling 
melodies  broke  out  among  all  the  heights  and  hollows, 
as  if  every  nook  of  his  native  valley  had  found  a  voice 
to  welcome  the  distinguished  guest.  But  the  grandest 
effect  was  when  the  far-off  mountain  precipice  flung 
back  the  music ;  for  then  the  Great  Stone  Face  it 
self  seemed  to  be  swelling  the  triumphant  chorus,  in 
acknowledgment  that,  at  length,  the  man  of  prophecy 
was  come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up  their 
tats  and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so  contagious  that 
the  heart  of  Ernest  kindled  up,  and  he  likewise 
threw  up  his  hat,  and  shouted,  as  loudly  as  the  loud 
est,  "  Huzza  for  the  great  man !  Huzza  for  Old 
Stony  Phiz !  "  But  as  yet  he  had  not  seen  him. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  101 

"  Here  he  is  now !  "  cried  those  who  stood  near 
Ernest.  "  There  !  There  !  Look  at  Old  Stony  Phiz 
and  then  at  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  see  if 
they  are  not  as  like  as  two  twin-brothers !  " 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array,  came  an  open 
barouche,  drawn  by  four  white  horses;  and  in  the 
barouche,  with  his  massive  head  uncovered,  sat  the 
illustrious  statesman,  Old  Stony  Phiz  himself. 

"  Confess  it,"  said  one  of  Ernest's  neighbors  to 
him,  "the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met  its  match  at 
last!" 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that,  at  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  countenance  which  was  bowing  and  smiling  from 
the  barouche,  Ernest  did  fancy  that  there  was  a 
resemblance  between  it  and  the  old  familiar  face  upon 
the  mountain-side.  The  brow,  with  its  massive  depth 
and  loftiness,  and  all  the  other  features,  indeed,  were 
boldly  and  strongly  hewn,  as  if  in  emulation  of  a  more 
than  heroic,  of  a  Titanic  model.  But  the  sublimity 
and  stateliness,  the  grand  expression  of  a  divine  sym 
pathy,  that  illuminated  the  mountain  visage,  and  ethe- 
realized  its  ponderous  granite  substance  into  spirit, 
might  here  be  sought  in  vain.  Something  had  been 
originally  left  out,  or  had  departed.  And  therefore 
the  marvellously  gifted  statesman  had  always  a  weary 
gloom  in  the  deep  caverns  of  his  eyes,  as  of  a  child 
that  has  outgrown  its  playthings,  or  a  man  of  mighty 
faculties  and  little  aims,  whose  life,  with  all  its  high 
performances,  was  vague  and  empty,  because  no  high 
purpose  had  endowed  it  with  reality. 

Still  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his  elbow  into 
his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an  answer. 

"  Confess  !  confess !  Is  not  he  the  very  picture  of 
your  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  ?  " 


102  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  No !  "  said  Ernest,  bluntly,  "  I  see  little  or  no 
likeness." 

"Then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Great  Stone 
Face !  "  answered  his  neighbor ;  and  again  he  set  up  a 
shout  for  Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and  almost 
despondent;  for  this  was  the  saddest  of  his  disap 
pointments,  to  behold  a  man  who  might  have  fulfilled 
the  prophecy,  and  had  not  willed  to  do  so.  Mean 
time,  the  cavalcade,  the  banners,  the  music,  the  ba 
rouches  swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous  crowd  in 
the  rear,  leaving  the  dust  to  settle  down,  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face  to  be  revealed  again,  with  the  gran 
deur  that  it  had  worn  for  untold  centuries. 

"  Lo,  here  I  am,  Ernest !  "  the  benign  lips  seemed 
to  say.  "  I  have  waited  longer  than  thou,  and  am  not 
yet  weary.  Fear  not ;  the  man  will  come." 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste 
on  one  another's  heels.  And  now  they  began  to  bring 
white  hairs,  and  scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Ernest ; 
they  made  reverend  wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and 
furrows  in  his  cheeks.  He  was  an  aged  man.  But 
not  in  vain  had  he  grown  old :  more  than  the  white 
hairs  on  his  head  were  the  sage  thoughts  in  his  mind ; 
his  wrinkles  and  furrows  were  inscriptions  that  Time 
had  graved,  and  in  which  he  had  written  legends  of 
wisdom  that  had  been  tested  by  the  tenor  of  a  life. 
And  Ernest  had  ceased  to  be  obscure.  Unsought  for, 
undesired,  had  come  the  fame  which  so  many  seek, 
and  made  him  known  in  the  great  world,  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  valley  in  which  he  had  dwelt  so  quietly. 
College  professors,  and  even  the  active  men  of  cities, 
came  from  far  to  see  and  converse  with  Ernest ;  for 
the  report  had  gone  abroad  that  this  simple  husband- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  103 

man  had  ideas  unlike  those  of  other  men,  not  gained 
from  books,  but  of  a  higher  tone,  —  a  tranquil  and 
familiar  majesty,  as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the 
angels  as  his  daily  friends.  Whether  it  were  sage, 
statesman,  or  philanthropist,  Ernest  received  these 
visitors  with  the  gentle  sincerity  that  had  character 
ized  him  from  boyhood,  and  spoke  freely  with  them  of 
whatever  came  uppermost,  or  lay  deepest  in  his  heart 
or  their  own.  While  they  talked  together  his  face 
would  kindle,  unawares,  and  shine  upon  them,  as  with 
a  mild  evening  light.  Pensive  with  the  fulness  of 
such  discourse,  his  guests  took  leave  and  went  their 
way ;  and  passing  up  the  valley,  paused  to  IOOK  at  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  imagining  that  they  had  seen  its 
likeness  in  a  human  countenance,  but  could  not 
remember  where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and  growing 
old,  a  bountiful  Providence  had  granted  a  new  poet  to 
this  earth.  He,  likewise,  was  a  native  of  the  valley, 
but  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at  a  distance 
from  that  romantic  region,  pouring  out  his  sweet 
music  amid  the  bustle  and  din  of  cities.  Often,  how 
ever,  did  the  mountains  which  had  been  familiar  to 
him  in  his  childhood  lift  their  snowy  peaks  into  the 
clear  atmosphere  of  his  poetry.  Neither  was  the 
Great  Stone  Face  forgotten,  for  the  poet  had  cele 
brated  it  in  an  ode  which  was  grand  enough  to  have 
been  uttered  by  its  own  majestic  lips.  The  man  of 
genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down  from  heaven  with 
wonderful  endowments.  If  he  sang  of  a  mountain, 
the  eyes  of  all  mankind  beheld  a  mightier  grandeur 
reposing  on  its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its  summit,  than 
had  before  been  seen  there.  If  his  theme  were  a 
lovely  lake,  a  celestial  smile  had  now  been  thrown  over 


104  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  surface.  If  it  were  the  vast 
old  sea,  even  the  deep  immensity  of  its  dread  bosoin 
seemed  to  swell  the  higher,  as  if  moved  by  the  emo 
tions  of  the  song.  Thus  the  world  assumed  another 
and  a  better  aspect  from  the  hour  that  the  poet  blessed 
it  with  his  happy  eyes.  The  Creator  had  bestowed 
him,  as  the  last  best  touch  to  his  own  handiwork. 
Creation  was  not  finished  till  the  poet  came  to  inter 
pret,  and  so  complete  it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful  when  his 
human  brethren  were  the  subject  of  his  verse.  The 
man  or  woman,  sordid  with  the  common  dust  of  life, 
who  crossed  his  daily  path,  and  the  little  child  who 
played  in  it,  were  glorified  if  he  beheld  them  in  his 
mood  of  poetic  faith.  He  showed  the  golden  links  of 
the  great  chain  that  intertwined  them  with  an  angelic 
kindred ;  he  brought  out  the  hidden  traits  of  a  celes 
tial  birth  that  made  them  worthy  of  such  kin.  Some, 
indeed,  there  were,  who  thought  to  show  the  soundness 
of  their  judgment  by  affirming  that  all  the  beauty  and 
dignity  of  the  natural  world  existed  only  in  the  poet's 
fancy.  Let  such  men  speak  for  themselves,  who  un 
doubtedly  appear  to  have  been  spawned  forth  by  Nature 
with  a  contemptuous  bitterness ;  she  having  plastered 
them  up  out  of  her  refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine  were 
made.  As  respects  all  things  else,  the  poet's  ideal  was 
the  truest  truth. 

The  songs  of  this  poet  found  their  way  to  Ernest. 
He  read  them  after  his  customary  toil,  seated  on  the 
bench  before  his  cottage  door,  where  for  such  a  length 
of  time  he  had  filled  his  repose  with  thought,  by  gazing 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face.  And  now  as  he  read  stanzas 
that  caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within  him,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  vast  countenance  beaming  on  him  so  benig- 
nantly. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  105 

"  O  majestic  friend,"  he  murmured,  addressing  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  "  is  not  this  man  worthy  to  resem 
ble  thee?" 

The  Face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he  dwelt  so 
far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of  Ernest,  but  had  med 
itated  much  upon  his  character,  until  he  deemed  no 
thing  so  desirable  as  to  meet  this  man,  whose  untaught 
wisdom  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  noble  simplicity 
of  his  life.  One  summer  morning,  therefore,  he  took 
passage  by  the  railroad,  and,  in  the  decline  of  the 
afternoon,  alighted  from  the  cars  at  no  great  distance 
from  Ernest's  cottage.  The  great  hotel,  which  had 
formerly  been  the  palace  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  was  close 
at  hand,  but  the  poet,  with  his  carpet-bag  on  his  arm, 
inquired  at  once  where  Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved 
to  be  accepted  as  his  guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the  good  old 
man,  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand,  which  alternately 
he  read,  and  then,  with  a  finger  between  the  leaves, 
looked  lovingly  at  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  the  poet.  "  Can  you  give  a 
traveller  a  night's  lodging  ?  " 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Ernest ;  and  then  he  added, 
smiling,  "  methinks  I  never  saw  the  Great  Stone  Face 
look  so  hospitably  at  a  stranger." 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and  he 
and  Ernest  talked  together.  Often  had  the  poet  held 
intercourse  with  the  wittiest  and  the  wisest,  but  never 
before  with  a  man  like  Ernest,  whose  thoughts  and 
feelings  gushed  up  with  such  a  natural  freedom,  and 
who  made  great  truths  so  familiar  by  his  simple  utter 
ance  of  them.  Angels,  as  had  been  so  often  said, 
seemed  to  have  wrought  with  him  at  his  labor  in  the 


106  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

fields ;  angels  seemed  to  have  sat  with  him  by  the  fire 
side  ;  and,  dwelling  with  angels  as  friend  with  friends, 
he  had  imbibed  the  sublimity  of  their  ideas,  and  im 
bued  it  with  the  sweet  and  lowly  charm  of  household 
words.  So  thought  the  poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  moved  and  agitated  by  the  living 
images  which  the  poet  flung  out  of  his  mind,  and 
which  peopled  all  the  air  about  the  cottage  door  with 
shapes  of  beauty,  both  gay  and  pensive.  The  sym 
pathies  of  these  two  men  instructed  them  with  a  pro- 
founder  sense  than  either  could  have  attained  alone. 
Their  minds  accorded  into  one  strain,  and  made  delight 
ful  music  which  neither  of  them  could  have  claimed 
as  all  his  own,  nor  distinguished  his  own  share  from 
the  other's.  They  led  one  another,  as  it  were,  into  a 
high  pavilion  of  their  thoughts,  so  remote,  and  hitherto 
so  dim,  that  they  had  never  entered  it  before,  and  so 
beautiful  that  they  desired  to  be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  was  bending  forward  to  listen  too. 
He  gazed  earnestly  into  the  poet's  glowing  eyes. 

"  Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest  ?  "  he  said. 

The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that  Ernest 
had  been  reading. 

"You  have  read  these  poems,"  said  he.  "You 
know  me,  then,  —  for  I  wrote  them." 

Again,  and  still  more  earnestly  than  before,  Ernest 
examined  the  poet's  features ;  then  turned  towards  the 
Great  Stone  Face ;  then  back,  with  an  uncertain  as 
pect,  to  his  guest.  But  his  countenance  fell;  he 
shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Wherefore  are  you  sad  ?  "  inquired  the  poet. 

"Because,"  replied  Ernest,  "all  through  life  I 
have  awaited  the  fulfilment  of  a  prophecy ;  and,  when 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  107 

I  read  these  poems,  I  hoped  that  it  might  be  fulfilled 
in  you." 

"  You  hoped,"  answered  the  poet,  faintly  smiling, 
"  to  find  in  me  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
And  you  are  disappointed,  as  formerly  with  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold,  and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  and  Old  Stony 
Phiz.  Yes,  Ernest,  it  is  my  doom.  You  must  add 
my  name  to  the  illustrious  three,  and  record  another 
failure  of  your  hopes.  For  —  in  shame  and  sadness 
do  I  speak  it,  Ernest  —  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  typi 
fied  by  yonder  benign  and  majestic  image." 

"  And  why  ?  "  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed  to  the 
volume.  "  Are  not  those  thoughts  divine  ?  " 

"  They  have  a  strain  of  the  Divinity,"  replied  the 
poet.  "  You  can  hear  in  them  the  far-off  echo  of  a 
heavenly  song.  But  my  life,  dear  Ernest,  has  not 
corresponded  with  my  thought.  I  have  had  grand 
dreams,  but  they  have  been  only  dreams,  because  I 
have  lived  —  and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice  — 
among  poor  and  mean  realities.  Sometimes  even  — 
shall  I  dare  to  say  it  ?  —  I  lack  faith  in  the  grandeur, 
the  beauty,  and  the  goodness,  which  my  own  works 
are  said  to  have  made  more  evident  in  nature  and  in 
human  life.  Why,  then,  pure  seeker  of  the  good  and 
true,  shouldst  thou  hope  to  find  me  in  yonder  image 
of  the  divine  ?  " 

The  poet  spoke  sadly,  and  his  eyes  were  dim  with, 
tears.  So,  likewise,  were  those  of  Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset,  as  had  long  been  his  frequent 
custom,  Ernest  was  to  discourse  to  an  assemblage  of 
the  neighboring  inhabitants  in  the  open  air.  He  and 
the  poet,  arm  in  arm,  still  talking  together  as  they 
went  along,  proceeded  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  small 
nook  among  the  hills,  with  a  gray  precipice  behind, 


108  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  stern  front  of  which  was  relieved  by  the  pleasant 
foliage  of  many  creeping  plants,  that  made  a  tapestry 
for  the  naked  rock,  by  hanging  their  festoons  from 
all  its  rugged  angles.  At  a  small  elevation  above  the 
ground,  set  in  a  rich  framework  of  verdure,  there 
appeared  a  niche,  spacious  enough  to  admit  a  hu 
man  figure,  with  freedom  for  such  gestures  as  sponta 
neously  accompany  earnest  thought  and  genuine  emo 
tion.  Into  this  natural  pulpit  Ernest  ascended,  and 
threw  a  look  of  familiar  kindness  around  upon  his 
audience.  They  stood,  or  sat,  or  reclined  upon  the 
grass,  as  seemed  good  to  «ach,  with  the  departing 
sunshine  falling  obliquely  over  them,  and  mingling 
its  subdued  cheerfulness  with  the  solemnity  of  a  grove 
of  ancient  trees,  beneath  and  amid  the  boughs  of 
which  the  golden  rays  were  constrained  to  pass.  In 
another  direction  was  seen  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with 
the  same  cheer,  combined  with  the  same  solemnity,  in 
its  benignant  aspect. 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people  of  what 
was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  His  words  had  power, 
because  they  accorded  with  his  thoughts;  and  his 
thoughts  had  reality  and  depth,  because  they  harmo 
nized  with  the  life  which  he  had  always  lived.  It  was 
not  mere  breath  that  this  preacher  uttered  ;  they  were 
the  words  of  life,  because  a  life  of  good  deeds  and 
holy  love  was  melted  into  them.  Pearls,  pure  and  rich, 
had  been  dissolved  into  this  precious  draught.  The 
poet,  as  he  listened,  felt  that  the  being  and  character 
of  Ernest  were  a  nobler  strain  of  poetry  than  he  had 
ever  written.  His  eyes  glistening  with  tears,  he  gazed 
reverentially  at  the  venerable  man,  and  said  within 
himself  that  never  was  there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a 
prophet  and  a  sage  as  that  mild,  sweet,  thoughtful 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  109 

countenance,  with  the  glory  of  white  hair  diffused 
about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  distinctly  to  be  seen, 
high  up  in  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun,  ap 
peared  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  hoary  mists  around 
it,  like  the  white  hairs  around  the  brow  of  Ernest.  Its 
look  of  grand  beneficence  seemed  to  embrace  the  world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a  thought  which 
he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face  of  Ernest  assumed  a 
grandeur  of  expression,  so  imbued  with  benevolence, 
that  the  poet,1  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  his 
arms  aloft,  and  shouted,  — 

"Behold!  Behold!  Ernest  is  himself  the  like 
ness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  " 

Then  all  the  people  looked  and  saw  that  what  the 
deep-sighted  poet  said  was  true.  The  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.  But  Ernest,  having  finished  what  he  had 
to  say,  took  the  poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  home 
ward,  still  hoping  that  some  wiser  and  better  man 
than  himself  would  by  and  by  appear,  bearing  a.  re 
semblance  to  the  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA. 

NEVER  did  a  pilgrim  approach  Niagara  with  deeper 
enthusiasm  than  mine.  I  had  lingered  away  from  it, 
and  wandered  to  other  scenes,  because  my  treasury  of 
anticipated  enjoyments,  comprising  all  the  wonders  of 

1  That  the  poet  should  have  been  the  one  to  discover  the  re 
semblance  accords  with  the  conception  of  the  poet  himself  in 
this  little  apologue.  Poetic  insight  is  still  separable  from  integ 
rity  of  character,  and  it  was  quite  possible  for  this  poet  to  see 
the  ideal  beauty  in  another,  while  conscious  of  his  own  defect. 
The  humility  of  Ernest,  as  the  last  word  of  the  story,  completes 
the  certainty  of  the  likeness. 


110  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  world,  had  nothing  else  so  magnificent,  and  I  was 
loath  to  exchange  the  pleasures  of  hope  for  those  of 
memory  so  soon.  At  length  the  day  came.  The 
stage-coach,  with  a  Frenchman  and  myself  on  the 
back  seat,  had  already  left  Lewiston,  and  in  less  than 
an  hour  would  set  us  down  in  Manchester.  I  began 
to  listen  for  the  roar  of  the  cataract,  and  trembled 
with  a  sensation  like  dread,  as  the  moment  drew  nigh, 
when  its  voice  of  ages  must  roll,  for  the  first  time,  on 
my  ear.  The  French  gentleman  stretched  himself 
from  the  window,  and  expressed  loud  admiration, 
while,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  I  threw  myself  back  and 
closed  my  eyes.  When  the  scene  shut  in,  I  was  glad, 
to  think,  that  for  me  the  whole  burst  of  Niagara  was 
yet  in  futurity.  We  rolled  on,  and  entered  the  village 
of  Manchester,  bordering  on  the  falls. 

I  am  quite  ashamed  of  myself  here.  Not  that  I 
tan  like  a  madman  to  the  falls,  and  plunged  into  the 
thickest  of  the  spray,  —  never  stopping  to  breathe,  till 
breathing  was  impossible ;  not  that  I  committed  this, 
or  any  other  suitable  extravagance.  On  the  contrary, 
I  alighted  with  perfect  decency  and  composure,  gave 
my  cloak  to  the  black  waiter,  pointed  out  my  baggage, 
and  inquired,  not  the  nearest  way  to  the  cataract,  but 
about  the  dinner-hour.  The  interval  was  spent  in 
arranging  my  dress.  Within  the  last  fifteen  minutes, 
my  mind  had  grown  strangely  benumbed,  and  my 
spirits  apathetic,  with  a  slight  depression,  not  decided 
enough  to  be  termed  sadness.  My  enthusiasm  was  in 
a  deathlike  slumber.  Without  aspiring  to  immortal 
ity,  as  he  did,  I  could  have  imitated  that  English  trav 
eller,  who  turned  back  from  the  point  where  he  first 
heard  the  thunder  of  Niagara,  after  crossing  the  ocean 
to  behold  it.  Many  a  Western  trader,  by  the  by,  has 


MY   VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  Ill 

performed  a  similar  act  of  heroism  with  more  heroic 
simplicity,  deeming  it  no  such  wonderful  feat  to  dine 
at  the  hotel  and  resume  his  route  to  Buffalo  or  Lewis- 
ton,  while  the  cataract  was  roaring  unseen. 

Such  has  often  been  my  apathy,  when  objects,  long 
sought,  and  earnestly  desired,  were  placed  within  my 
reach.  After  dinner  —  at  which  an  unwonted  and 
perverse  epicurism  detained  me  longer  than  usual  —  I 
lighted  a  cigar  and  paced  the  piazza,  minutely  atten 
tive  to  the  aspect  and  business  of  a  very  ordinary  vil 
lage.  Finally,  with  reluctant  step,  and  the  feeling  of 
an  intruder,  I  walked  towards  Goat  Island.  At  the 
toll-house,  there  were  farther  excuses  for  delaying  the 
inevitable  moment.  My  signature  was  required  in  a 
huge  ledger,  containing  similar  records  innumerable, 
many  of  which  I  read.  The  skin  of  a  great  stur 
geon,  and  other  fishes,  beasts,  and  reptiles ;  a  collec 
tion  of  minerals,  such  as  lie  in  heaps  near  the  falls ; 
some  Indian  moccasons,  and  other  trifles,  made  of 
deer-skin  and  embroidered  with  beads  ;  several  news 
papers,  from  Montreal,  New  York,  and  Boston,  —  all 
attracted  me  in  turn.  Out  of  a  number  of  twisted 
sticks,  the  manufacture  of  a  Tuscarora  Indian,  I 
selected  one  of  curled  maple,  curiously  convoluted, 
and  adorned  with  the  carved  images  of  a  snake  and  a 
fish.  Using  this  as  my  pilgrim's  staff,  I  crossed  the 
bridge.  Above  and  below  me  were  the  rapids,  a  river 
of  impetuous  snow,  with  here  and  there  a  dark  rock 
amid  its  whiteness,  resisting  all  the  physical  fury,  as 
any  cold  spirit  did  the  moral  influences  of  the  scene. 
On  reaching  Goat  Island,  which  separates  the  two 
great  segments  of  the  falls,  I  chose  the  right-hand 
path,  and  followed  it  to  the  edge  of  the  American  cas 
cade.  There,  while  the  falling  sheet  was  yet  invisible, 


112  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

I  saw  the  vapor  that  never  vanishes,  and  the  Eternal 
Rainbow  of  Niagara. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  glorious  sunshine,  without  a 
cloud,  save  those  of  the  cataracts.  I  gained  an  insu 
lated  rock,  and  beheld  a  broad  sheet  of  brilliant  and 
unbroken  foam,  not  shooting  in  a  curved  line  from  the 
top  of  the  precipice,  but  falling  headlong  down  from 
height  to  depth.  A  narrow  stream  diverged  from  the 
main  branch,  and  hurried  over  the  crag  by  a  channel 
of  its  own,  leaving  a  little  pine-clad  island  and  a 
streak  of  precipice  between  itself  and  the  larger  sheet. 
Below  arose  the  mist,  on  which  was  painted  a  dazzling 
sunbow  with  two  concentric  shadows, — one,  almost 
as  perfect  as  the  original  brightness ;  and  the  other, 
drawn  faintly  round  the  broken  edge  of  the  cloud. 

Still  I  had  not  half  seen  Niagara.  Following  the 
verge  of  the  island,  the  path  led  me  to  the  Horseshoe, 
where  the  real,  broad  St.  Lawrence,  yushing  along  on 
a  level  with  its  banks,  pours  its  whole  breadth  over  a 
concave  line  of  precipice,  and  thence  pursues  its  course 
between  lofty  crags  towards  Ontario.  A  sort  of 
bridge,  two  or  three  feet  wide,  stretches  out  along  the 
edge  of  the  descending  sheet,  and  hangs  upon  the  ris 
ing  mist,  as  if  that  were  the  foundation  of  the  frail 
structure.  Here  I  stationed  myself  in  the  blast  of 
wind,  which  the  rushing  river  bore  along  with  it.  The 
bridge  was  tremulous  beneath  me,  and  marked  the 
tremor  of  the  solid  earth.  I  looked  along  the  whiten 
ing  rapids,  and  endeavored  to  distinguish  a  mass  of 
water  far  above  the  falls,  to  follow  it  to  their  verge, 
and  go  down  with  it,  in  fancy,  to  the  abyss  of  clouds 
and  storm.  Casting  my  eyes  across  the  river,  and 
every  side,  I  took  in  the  whole  scene  at  a  glance,  and 
tried  to  comprehend  it  in  one  vast  idea.  After  an 


MY   VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  113 

hour  thus  spent,  I  left  the  bridge,  and  by  a  staircase, 
winding  almost  interminably  round  a  post,  descended 
to  the  base  of  the  precipice.  From  that  point,  my 
path  lay  over  slippery  stones,  and  among  great  frag 
ments  of  the  cliff,  to  the  edge  of  the  cataract,  where 
the  wind  at  once  enveloped  me  in  spray,  and  perhaps 
dashed  the  rainbow  round  me.  Were  my  long  desires 
fulfilled  ?  And  had  I  seen  Niagara  ? 

Oh  that  I  had  never  heard  of  Niagara  till  I  beheld 
it  I  Blessed  were  the  wanderers  of  old,  who  heard  its 
deep  roar,  sounding  through  the  woods,  as  the  sum 
mons  to  an  unknown  wonder,  and  approached  its  awful 
brink,  in  all  the  freshness  of  native  feeling.  Had  its 
own  mysterious  voice  been  the  first  to  warn  me  of  its 
existence,  then,  indeed,  I  might  have  knelt  down  and 
worshipped.  But  I  had  come  thither,  haunted  with  a 
vision  of  foam  and  fury,  and  dizzy  cliffs,  and  an  ocean 
tumbling  down  out  of  the  sky,  —  a  scene,  in  short, 
which  nature  had  too  much  good  taste  and  calm  sim 
plicity  to  realize.  My  mind  had  struggled  to  adapt 
these  false  conceptions  to  the  reality,  and  finding 
the  effort  vain,  a  wretched  sense  of  disappointment 
weighed  me  down.  I  climbed  the  precipice,  and 
threw  myself  on  the  earth,  feeling  that  I  was  un 
worthy  to  look  at  the  Great  Falls,  and  careless  about 
beholding  them  again.  .  .  . 

All  that  night,  as  there  has  been  and  will  be  for 
ages  past  and  to  come,  a  rushing  sound  was  heard,  as 
if  a  great  tempest  were  sweeping  through  the  air.  It 
mingled  with  my  dreams,  and  made  them  full  of  storm 
and  whirlwind.  Whenever  I  awoke,  and  heard  this 
dread  sound  in  the  air,  and  the  windows  rattling  as 
with  a  mighty  blast,  I  could  not  rest  again,  till  look 
ing  forth,  I  saw  how  bright  the  stars  were,  and  that 


114  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

every  leaf  in  the  garden  was  motionless.  Never  was  a 
summer  night  more  calm  to  the  eye,  nor  a  gale  of  au 
tumn  louder  to  the  ear.  The  rushing  sound  proceeds 
from  the  rapids,  and  the  rattling  of  the  casements  is 
but  an  effect  of  the  vibration  of  the  whole  house, 
shaken  by  the  jar  of  the  cataract.  The  noise  of  the 
rapids  draws  the  attention  from  the  true  voice  of 
Niagara,  which  is  a  dull,  muffled  thunder,  resounding 
between  the  cliffs.  I  spent  a  wakeful  hour  at  mid 
night,  in  distinguishing  its  reverberations,  and  rejoiced 
to  find  that  my  former  awe  and  enthusiasm  were  reviv 
ing. 

Gradually,  and  after  much  contemplation,  I  came  to 
know,  by  m$  own  feelings,  that  Niagara  is  indeed  a 
wonder  of  the  world,  and  not  the  less  wonderful,  be 
cause  time  and  thought  must  be  employed  in  compre 
hending  it.  Casting  aside  all  preconceived  notions, 
and  preparation  to  be  dire-struck  or  delighted,  the 
beholder  must  stand  beside  it  in  the  simplicity  of  his 
heart,  suffering  the  mighty  scene  to  work  its  own  im 
pression.  Night  after  night,  I  dreamed  of  it,  and  was 
gladdened  every  morning  by  the  consciousness  of  a 
growing  capacity  to  enjoy  it.  Yet  I  will  not  pretend 
to  the  all-absorbing  enthusiasm  of  some  more  fortunate 
spectators,  nor  deny  that  very  trifling  causes  would 
draw  my  eyes  and  thoughts  from  the  cataract. 

The  last  day  that  I  was  to  spend  at  Niagara,  before 
my  departure  for  the  Far  West,  I  sat  upon  the  Table 
Kock.  This  celebrated  station  did  not  now,  as  of  old, 
project  fifty  feet  beyond  the  line  of  the  precipice,  but 
was  shattered  by  the  fall  of  an  immense  fragment, 
which  lay  distant  on  the  shore  below.  Still,  on  the 
utmost  verge  of  the  rock,  with  my  feet  hanging  ovei 
it,  I  felt  as  if  suspended  in  the  open  air.  Never  be- 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  115 

fore  had  my  mind  been  in  such  perfect  unison  with 
the  scene.  There  were  intervals,  when  I  was  con 
scious  of  nothing  but  the  great  river,  rolling  calmly 
into  the  abyss,  rather  descending  than  precipitating 
itself,  and  acquiring  tenfold  majesty  from  its  unhur 
ried  motion.  It  came  like  the  march  of  Destiny.  It 
was  not  taken  by  surprise,  but  seemed  to  have  antic 
ipated,  in  all  its  course  through  the  broad  lakes,  that 
it  must  pour  their  collected  waters  down  this  height. 
The  perfect  foam  of  the  river,  after  its  descent,  and 
the  ever-varying  shapes  of  mist,  rising  up,  to  become 
clouds  in  the  sky,  would  be  the  very  picture  of  con 
fusion,  were  it  merely  transient,  like  the  rage  of  a 
tempest.  But  when  the  beholder  has  stood  awhile, 
and  perceives  no  lull  in  the  storm,  and  considers  that 
the  vapor  and  the  foam  are  as  everlasting  as  the  rocks 
which  produce  them,  all  this  turmoil  assumes  a  sort  of 
calmness.  It  soothes,  while  it  awes  the  mind. 

Leaning  over  the  cliff,  I  saw  the  guide  conducting 
two  adventurers  behind  the  falls.  It  was  pleasant, 
from  that  high  seat  in  the  sunshine,  to  observe  them 
struggling  against  the  eternal  storm  of  the  lower  re 
gions,  with  heads  bent  down,  now  faltering,  now  press 
ing  forward,  and  finally  swallowed  up  in  their  victory. 
After  their  disappearance,  a  blast  rushed  out  with  an 
old  hat,  which  it  had  swept  from  one  of  their  heads. 
The  rock,  to  which  they  were  directing  their  unseen 
course,  is  marked,  at  a  fearful  distance  on  the  exterior 
of  the  sheet,  by  a  jet  of  foam.  The  attempt  to  reach 
it  appears  both  poetical  and  perilous  to  a  looker-on, 
but  may  be  accomplished  without  much  more  diffi 
culty  or  hazard  than  in  stemming  a  violent  north 
easter.  In  a  few  moments,  forth  came  the  children 
of  the  mist.  Dripping  and  breathless,  they  crept 


116  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

along  the  base  of  the  cliff,  ascended  to  the  guide's  cot 
tage,  and  received,  I  presume,  a  certificate  of  their 
achievement,  with  three  verses  of  sublime  poetry  on 
the  back. 

My  contemplations  were  often  interrupted  by  stran 
gers  who  came  down  from  Forsyth's  to  take  their  first 
view  of  the  falls.  A  short,  ruddy,  middle-aged  gen 
tleman,  fresh  from  Old  England,  peeped  over  the  rock, 
and  evinced  his  approbation  by  a  broad  grin.  His 
spouse,  a  very  robust  lady,  afforded  a  sweet  example 
of  maternal  solicitude,  being  so  intent  on  the  safety  of 
her  little  boy  that  she  did  not  even  glance  at  Niagara. 
As  for  the  child,  he  gave  himself  wholly  to  the  enjoy 
ment  of  a  stick  of  candy.  Another  traveller,  a  native 
American,  and  no  rare  character  among  us,  produced 
a  volume  of  Captain  Hall's  tour,  and  labored  earnestly 
to  adjust  Niagara  to  the  captain's  description,  depart 
ing,'  at  last,  without  one  new  idea  or  sensation  of  his 
own.  The  next  comer  was  provided,  not  with  a 
printed  book,  but  with  a  blank  sheet  of  foolscap,  from 
top  to  bottom  of  which,  by  means  of  an  ever-pointed 
pencil,  the  cataract  was  made  to  thunder.  In  a  little 
talk  which  we  had  together,  he  awarded  his  approba 
tion  to  the  general  view,  but  censured  the  position  of 
Goat  Island,  observing  that  it  should  have  been  thrown 
farther  to  the  right,  so  as  to  widen  the  American  falls, 
and  contract  those  of  the  Horseshoe.  Next  appeared 
two  traders  of  Michigan,  who  declared,  that,  upon  the 
whole,  the  sight  was  worth  looking  at ;  there  certainly 
was  an  immense  water-power  here  ;  but  that,  after  all, 
they  would  go  twice  as  far  to  see  the  noble  stone-works 
of  Lockport,  where  the  Grand  Canal  is  locked  down  a 
descent  of  sixty  feet.  They  were  succeeded  by  a  young 
fellow,  in  a  homespun  cotton  dress,  with  a  staff  in  his 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  117 

hand,  and  a  pack  over  his  shoulders.  He  advanced 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  where  his  attention,  at 
first  wavering  among  the  different  components  of  the 
scene,  finally  became  fixed  in  the  angle  of  the  Horse 
shoe  falls,  which  is,  indeed,  the  central  point  of  inter 
est.  His  whole  soul  seemed  to  go  forth  and  be  trans 
ported  thither,  till  the  staff  slipped  from  his  relaxed 
grasp,  and  falling  down  —  down  —  down  —  struck 
upon  the  fragment  of  the  Table  Kock. 

In  this  manner  I  spent  some  hours,  watching  the 
varied  impression,  made  by  the  cataract,  on  those  who 
disturbed  me,  and  returning  to  unwearied  contempla 
tion,  when  left  alone.  At  length  my  time  came  to  de 
part.  There  is  a  grassy  footpath  through  the  woods, 
along  the  summit  of  the  bank,  to  a  point  whence  a 
causeway,  hewn  in  the  side  of  the  precipice,  goes  wind 
ing  down  to  the  Ferry,  about  half  a  mile  below  the 
Table  Rock.  The  sun  was  near  setting,  when  I 
emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  began  the 
descent.  The  indirectness  of  my  downward  road  con 
tinually  changed  the  point  of  view,  and  showed  me,  in 
rich  and  repeated  succession,  now,  the  whitening  rap 
ids  and  majestic  leap  of  the  main  river,  which  ap 
peared  more  deeply  massive  as  the  light  departed ; 
now,  the  lovelier  picture,  yet  still  sublime,  of  Goat 
Island,  with  its  rocks  and  grove,  and  the  lesser  falls, 
tumbling  over  the  right  bank  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  like 
a  tributary  stream ;  now,  the  long  vista  of  the  river, 
as  it  eddied  and  whirled  between  the  cliffs,  to  pass 
through  Ontario  toward  the  sea,  and  everywhere  to 
be  wondered  at,  for  this  one  unrivalled  scene.  The 
golden  sunshine  tinged  the  sheet  of  the  American  cas 
cade,  and  painted  on  its  heaving  spray  the  broken 
semicircle  of  a  rainbow,  heaven's  own  beauty  crown- 


118  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

ing  earth's  sublimity.  My  steps  were  slow,  and  I 
paused  long  at  every  turn  of  the  descent,  as  one  lin 
gers  and  pauses  who  discerns  a  brighter  and  brighten 
ing  excellence  in  what  he  must  soon  behold  no  more. 
The  solitude  of  the  old  wilderness  now  reigned  over 
the  whole  vicinity  of  the  falls.  My  enjoyment  be 
came  the  more  rapturous,  because  no  poet  shared  it, 
nor  wretch  devoid  of  poetry  profaned  it ;  but  the  spot 
so  famous  through  the  world  was  all  my  own  I 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB,  of  Quaker  birth  in  Puri» 
tan  surroundings,  was  born  at  the  homestead  near  Haver- 
hill,  Massachusetts,  December  17,  1807.  Until  his  eigh 
teenth  year  he  lived  at  home,  working  upon  the  farm  and  in 
the  little  shoemaker's  shop  which  nearly  every  farm  then  had 
as  a  resource  in  the  otherwise  idle  hours  of  winter.  The 
manual,  homely  labor  upon  which  he  was  employed  was  in 
part  the  foundation  of  that  deep  interest  which  the  poet 
never  has  ceased  to  take  in  the  toil  and  plain  fortunes  of  the 
people.  Throughout  his  poetry  runs  this  golden  thread  of 
sympathy  with  honorable  labor  and  enforced  poverty,  and 
many  poems  are  directly  inspired  by  it.  While  at  work 
with  his  father  he  sent  poems  to  the  Haverhill  Gazette,  and 
that  he  was  not  in  subjection  to  his  work  is  very  evident  by 
the  fact  that  he  translated  it  and  similar  occupations  into 
Songs  of  Labor.  He  had  two  years'  academic  training,  and 
in  1829  became  editor  in  Boston  of  the  American  Manu 
facturer^  a  paper  published  in  the  interest  of  the  tariff.  In 
1831  he  published  his  Legends  of  New  England,  prose 
sketches  in  a  department  of  literature  which  has  always 
had  strong  claims  upon  his  interest.  No  American  writer, 
unless  Irving  be  excepted,  has  done  so  much  to  throw  a 
graceful  veil  of  poetry  and  legend  over  the  country  of  his 
daily  life.  Essex  County,  in  Massachusetts,  and  the  beaches 
lying  between  Newburyport  and  Portsmouth  blossom  with 
flowers  of  Whittier's  planting.  He  has  made  rare  use  of 


120  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

the  homely  stories  which  he  had  heard  in  his  childhood,  and 
learned  afterward  from  familiar  intercourse  with  country 
people,  and  he  has  himself  used  invention  delicately  and  in 
harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  New  England  coast.  Al 
though  of  a  body  of  men  who  in  earlier  days  had  been  perse 
cuted  by  the  Puritans  of  New  England,  his  generous  mind 
has  not  failed  to  detect  all  the  good  that  was  in  the  stern 
creed  and  life  of  the  persecutors,  and  to  bring  it  forward  into 
the  light  of  his  poetry. 

In  1836  he  published  Mogg  Megone,  a  poem  which  stood 
first  in  the  collected  edition  of  his  poems  issued  in  1857,  and 
was  admitted  there  with  some  reluctance,  apparently,  by  the 
author.  In  that  and  the  Bridal  of  Pennacook  he  draws  his 
material  from  the  relation  held  between  the  Indians  and  the 
settlers.  His  sympathy  was  always  with  the  persecuted  and 
oppressed,  and  while  historically  he  found  an  object  of  pity 
and  self-reproach  in  the  Indian,  his  profoundest  compassion 
and  most  stirring  indignation  were  called  out  by  African  slav 
ery.  From  the  earliest  he  was  upon  the  side  of  the  abolition 
party.  Year  after  year  poems  fell  from  his  pen  in  which 
with  all  the  eloquence  of  his  nature  he  sought  to  enlist  his 
countrymen  upon  the  side  of  emancipation  and  freedom.  It 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  in  the  slow  development  of  pub 
lic  sentiment  Whittier's  steady  song  was  one  of  the  most 
powerful  advocates  that  the  slave  had,  all  the  more  power 
ful  that  it  was  free  from  malignity  or  unjust  accusation. 

Whittier's  poems  have  been  issued  in  a  number  of  small 
volumes,  and  collected  into  single  larger  volumes.  Besides 
those  already  indicated,  there  are  a  number  which  owe  their 
origin  to  his  tender  regard  for  domestic  life  and  the  simple 
experience  of  the  men  and  women  about  him.  Of  these 
Snow-Bound  is  the  most  memorable.  Then  his  fondness  for 
a  story  has  led  him  to  use  the  ballad  form  in  many  cases, 
and  Mabel  Martin  is  one  of  a  number,  in  which  the  narra 
tive  is  blended  with  a  fine  and  strong  charity.  The  catholic 
mind  of  this  writer  and  his  instinct  for  discovering  the  pure 


il 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  121 

moral  in  human  action  are  disclosed  by  a  number  of  poems, 
drawn  from  a  wide  range  of  historical  fact,  dealing  with  a 
great  variety  of  religious  faiths  and  circumstances  of  life, 
but  always  pointing  to  some  sweet  and  strong  truth  of  the 
divine  life.  Of  such  are  The  Brother  of  Mercy,  The  Gift  of 
Tritemius,  The  Two  Itabbis,  and  others.  Whittier's  Prose 
Works  are  comprised  in  three  volumes,  and  consist  mainly 
of  his  contributions  to  journals  and  of  Leaves  from  Mar 
garet  Smith's  Journal,  a  fictitious  diary  of  a  visitor  to  New 
England  in  1678. 

Mr.  Whittier  died  at  Hampton  Falls,  N.  H.,  September 
7, 1892.  His  life  has  been  written  by  his  literary  executor, 
Samuel  T.  Pickard,  under  the  title  Life  and  Letters  rf 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


SNOW-BOUND. 

A  WINTER  IDYL. 

"  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark,  so  good 
Spirits  which  be  Angels  of  Light  are  augmented  not  only  by  the 
Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common  Wood  fire  : 
and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this 
our  Fire  of  Wood  doth  the  same."  —  COR.  AGRIPPA,  Occult 
Philosophy,  Book  I.  ch.  v. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

EMEBSON,  The  Snow-Storm* 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky  5 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out,  10 


SNOW-BOUND.  123 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar  is 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 

Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors,  » 

Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 

Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows : 

Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn; 

And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 

Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows  ,  25 

The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows ; 

While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 

Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 

The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 

And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent.  so 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro  35 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts.  40 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  * 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sunj 


124  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake  and  pellicle  45 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent  w 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes  ;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood,  66 

Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat  eo 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle.  es 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :  "  Boys,  a  path !  " 

65.  The  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa,  in  Italy,  which  inclines  from 
the  perpendicular  a  little  more  than  six  feet  in  eighty,  is  a  cam 
panile,  or  bell-tower,  built  of  white  marble,  very  beautiful,  bufc 
so  famous  for  its  singular  deflection  from  perpendicularity  as  to 
be  known  almost  wholly  as  a  curiosity.  Opinions  differ  as  to 
the  leaning  being  the  result  of  accident  or  design,  but  the  better 
judgment  makes  it  an  effect  of  the  character  of  the  soil  on 
which  it  is  built.  The  Cathedral  to  which  it  belongs  has  suf 
fered  so  much  from  a  similar  cause  that  there  is  not  a  vertical 
line  in  it. 


SNOW-BOUND.  125 

Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 

Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 

Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew ;  w 

With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 

We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 

And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 

A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid  ?5 

With  dazzling  crystal :  we  had  read 

Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 

And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 

With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 

To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers.  80 

We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 

And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 

The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 

And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 

The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said,  w 

And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 

The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 

And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 

The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 

Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep,  90 

Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 

And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone,  95 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone, 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 

90.  Amun,  or  Ammon,  was  an  Egyptian  being,  representing 
An  attribute  of  Deity  under  the  form  of  a  ram. 


126  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

A  solitude  made  more  intense  100 

By  dreary-voice'd  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet.  105 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear  no 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 

To  have  an  almost  human  tone.  n* 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 

The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 

From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 

We  piled  with  care  our  nightly  stack  120 

Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 

The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 

And  on  its  top  the  stout  back^stick ; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 

And  filled  between  with  curious  art  125 

The  ragged  brush ;  then,  hovering  near, 

We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 

Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 

Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room  130 


SNOW-BOUND.  127 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom ; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 

Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 

Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free.  135 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 

The  Turk's  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 

While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 

The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "  Under  the  tree          140 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 

There  the  witches  are  making  tea.19 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 

Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 

Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood,  145 

Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 

Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 

Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 

Against  the  whiteness  of  their  back.  150 

For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 

Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 

Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 

To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without,  155 

We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 

Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 

In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 

While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 

The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat  j  ieo 

And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 

Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 


128  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 

The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed, 

The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread  ies 

Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 

The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 

A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 

And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 

Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet,  m 

The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 

The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 

And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 

With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ?  iw 

What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 

Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 

O  Time  and  Change  !  —  with  hair  as  gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day,  iso 

How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on ! 

Ah,  brother !  only  I  and  thou 

Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon  las 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er, 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more.  wo 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 
We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 
We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 

And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read,  195 


SNOW-BOUND.  129 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor ! 
Yet  Love  will  dream  and  Faith  will  trust  200 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must, 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away,  205 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death,  aw 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  I 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 

Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 

Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 

"  The  chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore."  au 

How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 

Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 

As  if  a  far-blown  trumpet  stirred 

The  languorous,  sin-sick  air,  I  heard : 

"  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry,  BO 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  I " 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 

215.  This  line  and  lines  220-223  are  taken  from  The  African 
Chief,  a  poem  by  Mrs.  Sarah  Wentworth  Morton,  which  was 
included  in  Caleb  Bingham's  The  American  Preceptor,  a  school- 
book  used  in  Whittier's  boyhood. 


130  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side  ;  2a 

Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 

In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp ; 

Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 

Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees; 

Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone  299 

On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone ; 

Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 

Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 

And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 

The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl.  235 

Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 

Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee ; 

Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 

Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along       240 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 

We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 
And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 
The  hake-broil  on  the  driftwood  coals ; 

The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made,  ais 

Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 

With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 

We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 

And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 

To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay  2M 

Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 

Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 

When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow, 

And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars.  255 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking  heel, 


SNOW-BOUND.  131 

Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 

At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 

And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore  wo 

His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 

Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 

So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free 

(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways),  285 

The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room  3 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book,  arc 

The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country-side ; 
"We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 

The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away ;  2» 

We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay  230 

The  duck's  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild  geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 
Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave  288 

From  painful  Sewel's  ancient  tome, 

259.  Dover  in  New  Hampshire. 

286.  William  Sewel  was  the  historian  of  the  Quakers.  Charles 
Lamb  seemed  to  have  as  good  an  opinion  of  the  book  as  Whit- 
tier.  In  his  essay  A  Quakers'  Meeting,  in  Essays  of  Elia,  he  says  : 
"  Reader,  if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  it,  I  would  recommend 


132  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 

Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 

Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint,  — 

Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint !  —  290 

Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 

And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 

And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 

His  portly  presence,  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath  295 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 

to  you,  above  all  church-narratives,  to  read  SewePs  History  of  the 
Quakers.  ...  It  is  far  more  edifying  and  affecting  than  any 
thing  you  will  read  of  Wesley  or  his  colleagues." 

289.  Thomas  Chalkley  was  an  Englishman  of  Quaker  parent 
age,  born  in  1675,  who  travelled  extensively  as  a  preacher,  and 
finally  made  his  home  in  Philadelphia.  He  died  in  1749 ;  his 
Journal  was  first  published  in  1747.  His  own  narrative  of  the 
incident  which  the  poet  relates  is  as  follows  :  "  To  stop  their  mur 
muring,  I  told  them  they  should  not  need  to  cast  lots,  which  was 
usual  in  such  cases,  which  of  us  should  die  first,  for  I  would  freely 
offer  up  my  life-  to  do  them  good.  One  said,  *  God  bless  you  ! 
I  will  not  eat  any  of  you.*  Another  said,  *  He  would  rather  die 
before  he  would  eat  any  of  me  ; '  and  so  said  several,  I  can 
truly  say,  on  that  occasion,  at  that  time,  my  life  was  not  dear  to 
me,  and  that  I  was  serious  and  ingenuous  in  my  proposition  :  and 
as  I  was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  thoughtfully  consid 
ering  my  proposal  to  the  company,  and  looking  in  my  mind  to 
Him  that  made  me,  a  very  large  dolphin  came  up  towards  the 
top  or  surface  of  the  water,  and  looked  me  in  the  face  ;  and  I 
called  the  people  to  put  a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  take  him,  for 
here  is  one  come  to  redeem  me  (I  said  to  them).  And  they  put 
a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  the  fish  readily  took  it,  and  they  caught 
him.  He  was  longer  than  myself.  I  think  he  was  about  six 
feet  long,  and  the  largest  that  ever  I  saw.  This  plainly  showed 
us  that  we  ought  not  to  distrust  the  providence  of  the  Almighty. 
The  people  were  quieted  by  this  act  of  Providence,  and  mur 
mured  no  more.  We  caught  enough  to  eat  plentifully  of,  till  we 
got  into  the  capes  of  Delaware." 


SNOW-BOUND.  133 

Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save* 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave,  200 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 

A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 

"Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "and  be  content; 

These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 

By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram  ^5 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 

Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum.  ao 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys  as 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries ; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old,  a» 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 

310.  The  measure  requires  the  accent  ly'ceum,  but  in  stricter 
ose  the  accent  is  lyce'um. 

320.  A  philosopher  horn  in  the  first  century  of  the  Christian 
era,  of  whom  many  strange  stories  were  told,  especially  regard 
ing  his  converse  with  birds  and  animals. 

322.  Hermes  Trismegistus,  a  celebrated  Egyptian  priest  and 
philosopher,  to  whom  was  attributed  the  revival  of  geometry, 
arithmetic,  and  art  among  the  Egyptians.  He  was  little  later 
than  Apollonius. 


134  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began ;  325 

Strong  only  on  his  native-  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified,  jso 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,  — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done,  s» 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew,  840 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the  mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 

In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 

The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ;  MS 

The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer  350 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 

832.  Gilbert  White,  of  Selborne,  England,  was  a  clergyman 
who  wrote  the  Natural  History  of  Selborne,  a  minute,  affection 
ate,  and  charming  description  of  what  could  be  seen,  as  it  were, 
from  his  own  doorstep.  The  accuracy  of  his  observation  and  the 
delightf  ulness  of  his  manner  have  kept  the  book  a  classic. 


SNOW-BOUND.  135 

The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 

Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 

Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 

Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness,  865 

And  welcome  whereso'er  she  went, 

A  calm  and  gracious  element, 

Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 

Called  up  her  girlhood  memories,  »o 

The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 

The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 

Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 

And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 

A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance.  sw 

For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 

And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood ; 

Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 

The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way ; 

The  morning  dew,  that  dried  so  soon  sro 

With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 

Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 

From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 

All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 

The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart.  375 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 

Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 

Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust,  sao 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 

Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 

And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 

Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 


186  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  secret  of  self-sacrifice.  ssr> 

0  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  —  rest, 
Best  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things ! 

How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent  390 

Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat  a» 

Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill,  400 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow  405 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 

1  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 

I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod,  4M 

Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 

The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 

Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 

With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 

The  birds  are  glad ;  the  brier-rose  fills  «s 

398.  TV  unfading  green  would  be  harsher,  but  more  correct, 
since  the  termination  less  is  added  to  nouns  and  not  to  verbs. 


SNOW-BOUND.  137 

The  air  with  sweetness  ;  all  the  hills 

Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky  ; 

But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 

For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things,  ^20 

In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 

And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold  ?        425 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon  480 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are, 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand,  488 

And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 

The  master  of  the  district  school 

Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place  ;  *® 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 

Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 

Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat,  4ts 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 

In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 


138  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant,  450 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 

His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way ; 

Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 

To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town ;  455 

Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 

At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight,  m 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 

Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 

And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made.  455 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 

He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 

Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding  yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told  470 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 

Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Kome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 

'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods ;  «& 

Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 

The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 

And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 

476.  Pindus  is  the  mountain  chain  which,  running  from  north 
to  south,  nearly  hisects  Greece.  Five  rivers  take  their  rise  from 
the  central  peak,  the  Ab'us,  the  Arachthus,  the  Haliacmon,  the 
Peneus,  and  the  Achelous. 


SNOW-BOUND.  139 

Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed ;  480 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 

And  hostage  from  the  future  took 

In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear-eyed,  —  of  such  as  he  4ss 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike ;  490 

Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous  growth, 
Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell  495 

Of  prison-torture  possible ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill ;  500 

A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought,  sos 

In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 

And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 

And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night  sio 

Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 


140  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WH1TTIER. 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 

The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 

And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold,  516 

Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 

Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 

Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 

She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 

A  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest,  520 

Eebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 

A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 

Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped  the  lash, 
Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash ;  525 

And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Kayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light; 

The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 

Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 

Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate.  sso 

A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Eevealing  with  each  freak  or  feint  535 

The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 

Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 

Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist  -, 

The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes  HO 

Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 

Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 

636.  See  Shakespeare's  comedy  of  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

637.  St.  Catherine  of  Siena,  who  is  represented  as  having 
wonderful  visions.    She  made  a  vow  of  silence  for  three  years. 


SNOW-BOUND.  141 

Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout ; 

And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 

And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry.  MS 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 

Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 

What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 

Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock ! 

Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thoroughfares,  we 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 

Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 

Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 

Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 

The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon  «5 

With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 

Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way ; 

And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 

She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh,  seo 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 

Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies  I 


555.  An  interesting  account  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  an 
English  gentlewoman  who  led  a  singular  life  on  Mount  Lebanon 
in  Syria,  will  be  found  in  Kinglake's  Eothen,  chapter  viii. 

562.  This  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest  was  Miss  Harriet 
Livermore,  daughter  of  Judge  Livermore  of  New  Hampshire. 
She  was  a  woman  of  fine  powers,  but  wayward,  wild,  and  enthu 
siastic.  She  went  on  an  independent  mission  to  the  Western 
Indians,  whom  she,  in  common  with  some  others,  believed  to  be 
remnants  of  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel.  At  the  time  of  this  narra 
tive  she  was  about  twenty-eight  years  old,  but  much  of  her  life 
afterward  was  spent  in  the  Orient.  She  was  at  one  time  the 
companion  and  friend  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  but  finally 
quarrelled  with  her  about  the  use  of  the  holy  horses  kept  in  the 
B  table  in  waiting  for  the  Lord's  ride  to  Jerusalem  at  the  second 
advent. 


142  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTLED. 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  I 
The  outward  wayward  life  we  see,  ws 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 
Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 

Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 
The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born,  57C 

What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A  lifelong  discord  and  annoy,  WB 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate,  wo 

To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should  stand 
Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events  ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just,  «s 

Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust  I 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low,  wo 

Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 

The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 

Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 

Pointed  with  mutely-warning  sign 

Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine.  595 


SNOW-BOUND.  143 

That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke : 

My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 

Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 

And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 

Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover  «oo 

The  dull  red  brand  with  ashes  over. 

And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 

The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 

One  moment,  seeking  to  express 

Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness  «w 

For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health, 

And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 

Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 

But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart,  «w 

O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 

That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 

For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 

The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared,  vu 

With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 

Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 

We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 

The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 

And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall,  ffifl 

Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall, 

But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 

When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new ; 

Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew, 

Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams  625 

They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 

Ijow  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 

And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 


144  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER, 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 

Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ;  eao 

And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 

To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 

Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 

We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 

Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost,  «& 

Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 

Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 

Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 

The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 

Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes  640 

From  lip  to  lip ;  the  younger  folks 

Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling,  rolled, 

Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 

And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between  fi» 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 

At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 

Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law, 

Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw  CM 

Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 

And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 

Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 

Against  the  snow-balls'  compliments, 

And  reading  in  each  missive  tost  «& 

The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells'  sound ; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 

659.  The  wise  old  Doctor  was  Dr.  Weld  of  Haverhill,  an  able 
man,  who  died  at  the  age  of  ubiety-six. 


SNOW-BOUND.  145 

Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say  «o 

In  the  brief  autocratic  way 

Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 

Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need.  «w 

For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect  «w 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity ! 

So  days  went  on  :  a  week  had  passed 

Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from  last.  e?s 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 

Read  and  reread  our  little  store 

Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score ; 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 

From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid,  eso 

And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 

A  single  book  was  all  we  had,) 

Where  Ellwood's  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 

A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 

Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine,  flss 

683.  Thomas  Ellwood,  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  a  eon- 
temporary  and  friend  of  Milton,  and  the  suggestor  of  Paradise 
Regained,  wrote  an  epic  poem  in  five  books,  called  Davideis,  the 
life  of  King  David  of  Israel.  He  wrote  the  book,  we  are  told, 
for  his  own  diversion,  so  it  was  not  necessary  that  others  should 
be  diverted  by  it.  Ellwood's  autobiography,  a  quaint  and  de 
lightful  book,  is  included  in  Howells's  series  of  Choice  Autobio~ 
graphics. 


146  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 

At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 

The  village  paper  to  our  door. 

Lo !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 

To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread  5  ^ 

In  panoramic  length  unrolled 

We  saw' the  marvels  that  it  told. 

Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Rica's  everglades.  *& 

And  up  Taygetus  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 

A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle  bow  1 
Welcome  to  us  its  week  old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse,  TOO 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  knell  and  dirge  of  death  5 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ;  TO 

Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gam. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat ;  TM 

The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 

693.  Referring  to  the  removal  of  the  Creek  Indians  from 
Georgia  to  beyond  the  Mississippi. 

694.  In  1822  Sir  Gregor  McGregor,  a  Scotchman,  began  an 
ineffectual  attempt  to  establish  a  colony  in  Costa  Rica. 

697.  Taygetus  is  a  mountain  on  the  Gulf  of  Messenia  in 
Greece,  and  near  by  is  the  district  of  Maina,  noted  for  its  rob 
bers  and  pirates.  It  was  from  these  mountaineers  that  Ypsilanti, 
a  Greek  patriot,  drew  his  cavalry  in  the  struggle  with  Turkey 
which  resulted  in  the  independence  of  Greece. 


SNOW-BOUND.  147 

Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow  ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  I 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look  715 

And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 

And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past ;  720 

Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  aDd  woe ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 
Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death,  735 

And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 

Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 
With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall,  no 

Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids ; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids  m 

The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 

For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears : 

Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  I 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life,  749 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife, 

741.  The  name  is  drawn  from  a  historic  compact  in  1040, 
when  the  Church  forbade  barons  to  make  any  attack  on  each 


148  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngf ul  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few  T« 

Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days ; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze !  TOO 

And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond ;  755 

The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 

1866. 

THE  SHIP-BUILDERS, 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke  6 

And  grating  saw  begin ; 

other  between  sunset  on  Wednesday  and  sunrise  on  the  following 
Monday,  or  upon  any  ecclesiastical  fast  or  feast  day.  It  also 
provided  that  no  man  was  to  molest  a  laborer  working  in  the 
fields,  or  to  lay  hands  on  any  implement  of  husbandry,  on  paiu 
of  excommunication. 

747.  The  Flemish  school  of  painting  was  chiefly  occupied  with 
homely  interiors. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS.  149 

The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 
•  The  mallet  to  the  pin ! 

Hark !  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars,  10 

And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand  i& 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer.  20 

Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still ; 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up !  up !  in  nobler  toil  than  ours  as 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 
Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ;  ec 

Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough ; 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip  & 

With  salt-spray  caught  below ; 


150  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

"We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave ! 

Ho  I  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow ! 

God  bless  her !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostau  ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  1 

Speed  on  the  ship !     But  let  her  bear 
No  merchandise  of  sin, 


THE    WORSHIP  Of   NATURE.  151 

No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours ;  70 

But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain,  « 

The  spice  of  Morning-land ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea !  « 


THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE. 

THE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far  ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 
Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 


152  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth  is 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 

From  many  a  mountain  shrine ; 
From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 

She  pours  her  sacred  wine.  & 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 

Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 
The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 

Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud,  25 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves,  30 

Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 
From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march  35 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man.  4° 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  was  born  February  22,  1819, 
at  Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  the  house  where 
he  died  August  12, 1891.  His  early  life  was  spent  in  Cam 
bridge,  and  he  has  sketched  many  of  the  scenes  in  it  very 
delightfully  in  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago,  in  his  volume 
of  Fireside  Travels,  as  well  as  in  his  early  poem,  An  Indian 
Summer  Reverie.  His  father  was  a  Congregationalist  min 
ister  of  Boston,  and  the  family  to  which  he  belonged  has  had 
a  strong  representation  in  Massachusetts.  His  grandfather, 
John  Lowell,  was  an  eminent  jurist,  the  Lowell  Institute  of 
Boston  owes  its  endowment  to  John  Lowell,  a  cousin  of  the 
poet,  and  the  city  of  Lowell  was  named  after  Francis  Cabot 
Lowell,  an  uncle,  who  was  one  of  the  first  to  begin  the  man 
ufacturing  of  cotton  in  New  England. 

Lowell  was  a  student  at  Harvard,  and  was  graduated  in 
1838,  when  he  gave  a  class  poem,  and  in  1841  his  first  vol 
ume  of  poems,  A  Year's  Life,  was  published.  His  bent 
from  the  beginning  was  more  decidedly  literary  than  that  of 
any  contemporary  American  poet.  That  is  to  say,  the  his 
tory  and  art  of  literature  divided  his  interest  with  the  pro 
duction  of  literature,  and  he  carries  the  unusual  gift  of  rare 
critical  power,  joined  to  hearty,  spontaneous  creation.  It 
may  indeed  be  guessed  that  the  keenness  of  judgment  and 
incisiveness  of  wit  which  characterize  his  examination  of  lit 
erature  have  sometimes  interfered  with  his  poetic  power, 


154  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

and  made  him  liable  to  question  his  art  when  he  would 
rather  have  expressed  it  unchecked.  In  connection  with 
Robert  Carter,  a  litterateur  who  has  lately  died,  he  began, 
in  1843,  the  publication  of  The  Pioneer,  a  Literary  and 
Critical  Magazine,  which  lived  a  brilliant  life  of  three 
months.  A  volume  of  poetry  followed  in  1844,  and  the 
next  year  he  published  Conversations  on  Some  of  the  Old 
Poets,  —  a  book  which  is  now  out  of  print,  but  interesting 
as  marking  the  enthusiasm  of  a  young  scholar,  treading  a 
way  then  almost  wholly  neglected  in  America,  and  intimat 
ing  a  line  of  thought  and  study  in  which  he  afterward  made 
most  noteworthy  ventures.  Another  series  of  poems  fol 
lowed  in  1848,  and  in  the  same  year  The  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal.  Perhaps  it  was  in  reaction  from  the  marked  sen 
timent  of  his  poetry  that  he  issued  now  a  jeu  d'esprit,  A 
Fable  for  Critics,  in  which  he  hit  off,  with  a  rough  anc* 
ready  wit,  the  characteristics  of  the  writers  of  the  day,  not 
forgetting  himself  in  these  lines  :  — 

"  There  is  Lowell,  who  's  striving  Parnassus  to  climb 
With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together  with  rhyme  ; 
He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  brambles  and  boulders, 
But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on  his  shoulders  ; 
The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 
Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  singing  and  preaching  5 
His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would  ring  pretty  well, 
But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of  the  shell, 
And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Methusalem, 
At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  new  Jerusalem." 

This,  of  course,  is  but  a  half  serious  portrait  of  himself, 
and  it  touches  but  a  single  feature ;  others  can  say  better 
that  Lowell's  ardent  nature  showed  itself  in  the  series  of 
satirical  poems  which  made  him  famous,  The  Biglow  Pa 
pers,  written  in  a  spirit  of  indignation  and  fine  scorn,  when 
the  Mexican  War  was  causing  many  Americans  to  blush 
with  shame  at  the  use  of  the  country  by  a  class  for  its  own 
ignoble  ends.  The  true  patriotism  which  marked  these  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  155 

other  of  his  early  poems  burned  with  a  steady  glow  in  after 
years,  and  illumined  poems  of  which  we  shall  speak  pres 
ently. 

After  a  year  and  a  half  spent  in  travel,  Lowell  was  ap 
pointed  in  1855  to  the  Belles  Lettres  professorship  at  Har 
vard,  previously  held  by  Longfellow.  When  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  was  established  in  1857  he  became  its  editor,  and 
soon  after  relinquishing  that  post  he  assumed  part  editorship 
of  the  North  American  Review.  In  these  two  magazines, 
as  also  in  Putnam's  Monthly,  he  published  poems,  essays, 
and  critical  papers,  which  have  been  gathered  into  vol 
umes.  His  prose  writings,  besides  the  volumes  already 
mentioned,  include  two  series  of  Among  my  Books,  histori 
cal  and  critical  studies,  chiefly  in  English  literature ;  and 
My  Study  Windows,  including,  with  similar  subjects,  obser 
vations  of  nature  and  contemporary  life.  During  the  war 
for  the  Union  he  published  a  second  series  of  the  Biglow 
Papers,  in  which,  with  the  wit  and  fun  of  the  earlier  series, 
there  was  mingled  a  deeper  strain  of  feeling  and  a  larger 
tone  of  patriotism.  The  limitations  of  his  style  in  these  sa 
tires  forbade  the  fullest  expression  of  his  thought  and  emo 
tion  ;  but  afterward  in  a  succession  of  poems,  occasioned  by 
the  honors  paid  to  student-soldiers  in  Cambridge,  the  death 
of  Agassiz,  and  the  celebration  of  national  anniversaries 
during  the  years  1875  and  1876,  he  sang  in  loftier,  more 
ardent  strains.  The  interest  which  readers  have  in  Lowell 
is  still  divided  between  his  rich,  abundant  prose,  and  his 
thoughtful,  often  passionate  verse.  The  sentiment  of  his 
early  poetry,  always  humane,  was  greatly  enriched  by  larger 
experience  ;  so  that  the  themes  which  he  chose  for  his  later 
work  demanded  and  received  a  broad  treatment,  full  of 
sympathy  with  the  most  generous  instincts  of  their  tune, 
and  built  upon  historic  foundations. 

In  1877  he  went  to  Spain  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary. 
In  1880  he  was  transferred  to  England  as  Minister  Pleni 
potentiary  near  the  Court  of  St.  James.  His  duties  as 


156  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

American  Minister  did  not  prevent  him  from  producing  oc 
casional  writings,  chiefly  in  connection  with  public  events. 
Notable  among  these  are  his  address  at  the  unveiling  of  a 
statue  of  Fielding,  and  his  address  on  Democracy. 

Mr.  Lowell  returned  to  the  United  States  in  1885,  and 
was  not  afterward  engaged  in  public  affairs,  but  passed  the 
rest  of  his  life  quietly  in  his  Cambridge  home,  prevented 
by  failing  health  from  doing  much  literary  work.  He  made 
a  collection  of  his  later  poems  in  1888,  under  the  title 
Heartsease  and  Rue,  and  carefully  revised  his  complete 
works,  published  in  ten  volumes  in  1890. 


THE  VISION  OF   SIB  LAUNFAL. 

[AUTHOR'S  NOTE.  —  According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Ro 
mancers,  the  San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which 
Jesus  Christ  partook  of  the  last  supper  with  his  disciples.  It  was 
brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and  remained 
there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration,  for  many  years,  in 
the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants.  It  was  incumbent  upon 
those  who  had  charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and 
deed  ;  but  one  of  the  keepers  having  broken  this  condition,  the 
Holy  Grail  disappeared.  From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite  en 
terprise  of  the  Knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of  it. 
Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be  read 
in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  King  Arthur.  Ten 
nyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  ex 
quisite  of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so  slight)  of 
the  following  poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I 
have  enlarged  the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of  the  miracu 
lous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  include  not  only  other  persons 
than  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of  time 
subsequent  to  the  supposed  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign.] 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST. 

OVER  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And    builds   a  bridge   from   Dreamland    for    his 

lay: 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument  5 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 


158  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 
Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 

Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie  ;  if 

Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 

We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies ;  is 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea.  20 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in ; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold,  25 

Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 

9.  In  allusion  to  Wordsworth's 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,*' 

in  his  ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early 
Childhood. 

27.  In  the  Middle  Ages  kings  and  noblemen  had  in  their 
courts  jesters  to  make  sport  for  the  company  ;  as  every  one  then 
wore  a  dress  indicating  his  rank  or  occupation,  so  the  jester  wore 
a  cap  hung  with  bells.  The  fool  of  Shakespeare's  plays  is  the 
king's  jester  at  his  best. 


THE  VISION   OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  159 

Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking : 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ;  so 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer ; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune,  35 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers,        40 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green,  45 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves,  «o 

And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And    the   heart    in  her  dumb    breast  flutters   and 

sings ; 

He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  —  55 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 


160  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ;  eo 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well  es 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near,  70 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ;  75 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ;  so 

Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving ; 
?T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living :  85 

Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  of  the  season's  youth,  w 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  161 

Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 
Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What    wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Kemembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ?  * 


PART   FIRST. 


"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread,  100 

Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew."  105 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

ii. 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 

In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees,   no 
The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 

And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees : 

The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 

Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray  ;  us 

'T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 

And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 

Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree ; 


162  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 

But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied,  120 

She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 

Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 

Stretched  left  and  right, 

Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight ; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent,  125 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 


m. 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight,  iso 

In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf,  135 

Had  cast  them  forth :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  maiden  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 


IV. 

It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 

Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 
And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 

The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 

Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  163 

V. 

As  Sir  Launf  al  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate, 

He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate ; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came ;  iso 

The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 

For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature,  155 

Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,  — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 


VI. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 

44  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust,  ieo 

Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 

Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 

That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 

He  gives  only  the  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty  ;  ies 

But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,  — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms,  170 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 


164  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


PRELUDE   TO   PAET    SECOND. 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old ;  ITS 

On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek ; 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 

From  the  unleaf  ed  boughs  and  pastures  bare  ;  iso 

The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof ; 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams ; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars  185 

As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars  ; 

He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt,  wo 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze  ; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew ; 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief  195 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf ; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops,  200 

174.  Note  the  different  moods  that  are  indicated  by  the  two 
preludes.  The  one  is  of  June,  the  other  of  snow  and  winter. 
By  these  preludes  the  poet,  like  an  organist,  strikes  a  key  which 
he  holds  in  the  subsequent  part. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  165 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one  : 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice ; 

'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay  205 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost.  no 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly ; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide  215 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide  ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind ;  220 

And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

204.  The  Empress  of  Russia,  Catherine  II.,  in  a  magnificent 
freak,  built  a  palace  of  ice,  which  was  a  nine-days'  wonder. 
Cowper  has  given  a  poetical  description  of  it  in  The  Task,  Book 
V.  lines  131-176. 

216.  The  Yule-log  was  anciently  a  huge  log  burned  at  the  feast 
of  Juul  by  our  Scandinavian  ancestors  in  honor  of  the  god  Thor. 
Juul-tid  corresponded  in  time  to  Christmas  tide,  and  when  Chris 
tian  festivities  took  the  place  of  pagan,  many  ceremonies  re 
mained.  The  great  log,  still  called  the  Yule-log,  was  dragged 
in  and  burned  in  the  fireplace  after  Thor  had  been  forgotten. 


166  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp,  225 

Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 

A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own,  230 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was  —  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless !  " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night  235 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  aud  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


PART   SECOND. 
I. 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree,  240 

The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun ;  245 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

II. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate,  zso 

For  another  heir  in  the  earldom  sate ; 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  167 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross,          «» 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

in. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time  ;  »o 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small,  265 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade,       270 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV. 

"  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms ; "  — 

The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome  thing,          2w 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 

That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 

And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas, 

In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


168  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

V. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,  —  "I  behold  in  thee  230 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree ; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns,  — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns,  — 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side :  235 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me ; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  Thee  !  " 

VI. 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Kemembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise  290 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust,  295 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed,          soo 

And  't  was   red  wine   he  drank  with   his   thirsty 
soul. 

VTI. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified,  ses 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate, — 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  169 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

VIII. 

His  words  were   shed   softer  than  leaves  from   the 
pine,  310 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon  ; 
And  the  voice  that  was  softer  than  silence  said, 
"  Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !  sis 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 
Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now ; 
This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee,  320 

This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 
The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need : 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share,  — 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare  ;  325 

Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three, — 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

IX. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound  : 

"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 

Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall,  *so 

Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet  hall ; 

He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 

Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

x. 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall  sa& 


170  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough  ; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er ; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise,  MO 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise  ; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round ; 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command ;  345 

And  there 's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


KALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  was  born  in  Boston,  May  25, 
1803.  His  father,  his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grand 
father  were  all  ministers,  and,  indeed,  on  both  his  father's 
and  mother's  side  he  belongs  to  a  continuous  line  of  minis 
terial  descent  from  the  seventeenth  century.  At  the  time  of 
his  birth,  his  father,  the  Rev.  William  Emerson,  was  minis 
ter  of  the  First  Church  congregation,  but  on  his  death  a  few 
years  afterward,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  a  boy  of  seven, 
went  to  live  in  the  old  manse  at  Concord,  where  his  grand 
father  had  lived  when  the  Concord  fight  occurred.  The  old 
manse  was  afterward  the  home  at  one  time  of  Hawthorne, 
who  wrote  there  the  stories  which  he  gathered  into  the  vol 
ume,  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 

Emerson  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1821,  and  after 
teaching  a  year  or  two  gave  himself  to  the  study  of  divinity. 
From  1827  to  1832  he  preached  in  Unitarian  churches,  and 
was  for  four  years  a  colleague  pastor  in  the  Second  Church 
in  Boston.  He  then  left  the  ministry  and  afterward  devoted 
himself  to  literature.  He  travelled  abroad  in  1833,  in  1847, 
and  again  in  1872,  making  friends  among  the  leading  think' 
ers  during  his  first  journey,  and  confirming  the  friendships 
when  again  in  Europe ;  with  the  exception  of  these  three 
journeys  and  occasional  lecturing  tours  in  the  United  States, 
he  lived  quietly  at  Concord  until  his  death,  April  27,  1882. 

He  had  delivered  several  special  addresses,  and  in  his 
early  manhood  was  an  important  lecturer  in  the  Lyceum 


172  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

courses  which  were  so  popular,  especially  in  New  England, 
forty  years  ago,  but  his  first  published  book  was  Nature,  in 

1839.  Subsequent  prose  writings  were  his  Essays,  under 
that  title,  and  in  several  volumes  with  specific  titles,  Repre 
sentative  Men,  and  English  Traits.     In  form  the  prose  is 
either  the  oration  or  the  essay,  with  one  exception.     Eng 
lish  Traits  records  the  observations  of  the  writer  after  his 
first  two  journeys  to  England  ;  and  while  it  may  loosely  be 
classed   among   essays,  it  has   certain  distinctive  features 
which  separate  it  from  the  essays  of  the  same  writer ;  there 
is  in  it  narrative,  reminiscence,  and  description,  which  make 
it  more  properly  the  note-book  of  a  philosophic  traveller. 

It  may  be  said  of  his  essays  as  well  as  of  his  deliberate 
orations  that  the  writer  never  was  wholly  unmindful  of  an 
audience ;  he  was  conscious  always  that  he  was  not  merely 
delivering  his  mind,  but  speaking  directly  to  men.  One  is 
aware  of  a  certain  pointedness  of  speech  which  turns  the 
writer  into  a  speaker,  and  the  printed  words  into  a  sounding 
voice. 

He  wrote  poems  when  in  college,  but  his  first  publication 
of  verse  was  through  The  Dial,  a  magazine  established  in 

1840,  and  the  representative  of  a  knot  of  men  and  women 
of  whom   Emerson  was   the   acknowledged  or  unacknow 
ledged  leader.     The  first  volume   of  his  poems  was  pub 
lished  in  1847,   and  included  those  by  which  he  is  best 
known,  as  The  Problem,  The  Sphinx,  The  Rhodora,  The 
Humble  Bee,  Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Con 
cord  Monument.     After  the  establishment  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  in  1857,  he  contributed  to  it  both  prose  and  poetry, 
and  verses  published  in  the  early  numbers,  mere  enigmas  to 
some,  profound  revelations  to  others,  were  fruitful  of  discus 
sion  and  thought ;  his  second  volume  of  poems,  May  Day 
and  other  Pieces,  was  not  issued  until  1867.     Since  then  a 
volume  of  his  collected  poetry  has  appeared,  containing  most 
of  those  published  in  the  two  volumes,  and  a  few  in  addi 
tion.     We  are  told,  however,  that  the  published  writings  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  173 

Emerson  bear  but  small  proportion  to  the  unpublished. 
Many  lectures  have  been  delivered,  but  not  printed ;  many 
poems  written,  and  a  few  read,  which  have  never  been  pub 
lished.  The  inference  from  this,  borne  out  by  the  marks 
upon  what  has  been  published,  is  that  Mr.  Emerson  set  a 
high  value  upon  literature,  and  was  jealous  of  the  preroga 
tive  of  the  poet.  He  is  frequently  called  a  seer,  and  this 
old  word,  indicating  etymologically  its  original  intention,  is 
applied  well  to  a  poet  who  saw  into  nature  and  human  life 
with  a  spiritual  power  which  made  him  a  marked  man  in 
his  own  time,  and  one  destined  to  an  unrivalled  place  in  lit 
erature.  He  fulfilled  Wordsworth's  lines  :  — 

"  With  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 


BEHAVIOR. 

fiBACE,  Beauty,  and  Caprica 

Build  this  golden  portal ; 

Graceful  women,  chosen  men, 

Dazzle  every  mortal : 

Their  sweet  and  lofty  countenance 

His  enchanting  food ; 

He  need  not  go  to  them,  their  forms 

Beset  his  solitude. 

He  looketh  seldom  in  their  face, 

His  eyes  explore  the  ground, 

The  green  grass  is  a  looking-glasa 

Whereon  their  traits  are  found. 

Little  he  says  to  them, 

So  dances  his  heart  in  his  breast, 

Their  tranquil  mien  bereaveth  him 

Of  wit,  of  words,  of  rest. 

Too  weak  to  win,  too  fond  to  shun 

The  tyrants  of  his  doom, 

The  much-deceived  Endymion 

Slips  behind  a  tomb. 

THE  soul  which  animates  Nature  is  not  less  signifi 
cantly  published  in  the  figure,  movement,  and  gesture 
of  animated  bodies,  than  in  its  last  vehicle  of  articulate 
speech.  This  silent  and  subtile  language  is  Manners ; 
not  what,  but  how.  Life  expresses.  A  statue  has  no 
tongue,  and  needs  none.  Good  tableaux  do  not  need 
declamation.  Nature  tells  every  secret  once.  Yes, 
but  in  man  she  tells  it  all  the  time,  by  form,  attitude, 
gesture,  mien,  face,  and  parts  of  the  face,  and  by  the 
whole  action  of  the  machine.  The  visible  carriage  or 
action  of  the  individual,  as  resulting  from  his  organi 
zation  and  his  will  combined,  we  call  manners.  What 
are  they  but  thought  entering  the  hands  and  feet,  con 
trolling  the  movements  of  the  body,  the  speech  and 
behavior  ? 


BEHAVIOR.  175 

There  is  always  a  best  way  of  doing  everything,  if 
it  be  to  boil  an  egg.  Manners  are  the  happy  ways  of 
doing  things ;  each,  once  a  stroke  of  genius  or  of  love, 
—  now  repeated  and  hardened  into  usage.  They  form 
at  last  a  rich  varnish,  with  which  the  routine  of  life  is 
washed,  and  its  details  adorned.  If  they  are  super 
ficial,  so  are  the  dewdrops  which  give  such  a  depth  to 
the  morning  meadows.  Manners  are  very  communi 
cable  ;  men  catch  them  from  each  other.  Consuelo, 
in  the  romance,1  boasts  of  the  lessons  she  had  given 
the  nobles  in  manners,  on  the  stage ;  and,  in  real  life, 
Talma  2  taught  Napoleon  the  arts  of  behavior.  Genius 
invents  fine  manners,  which  the  baron  and  the  baron 
ess  copy  very  fast,  and,  by  the  advantage  of  a  palace, 
better  the  instruction.  They  stereotype  the  lesson 
they  have  learned  into  a  mode. 

The  power  of  manners  is  incessant,  —  an  element 
as  unconcealable  as  fire.  The  nobility  cannot  in  any 
country  be  disguised,  and  no  more  in  a  republic  or  a 
democracy  than  in  a  kingdom.  No  man  can  resist 
their  influence.  There  are  certain  manners  which  are 
learned  in  good  society,  of  that  force,  that,  if  a  person 
have  them,  he  or  she  must  be  considered,  and  is  every 
where  welcome,  though  without  beauty,  or  wealth,  or 
genius.  Give  a  boy  address  and  accomplishments, 
and  you  give  him  the  mastery  of  palaces  and  fortunes 
where  he  goes.  He  has  not  the  trouble  of  earning  or 
owning  them ;  they  solicit  him  to  enter  and  possess. 
We  send  girls  of  a  timid,  retreating  disposition  to  the 
boarding-school,  to  the  riding-school,  to  the  ball-room, 
or  wheresoever  they  can  come  into  acquaintance  and 
nearness  of  leading  persons  of  their  own  sex ;  where 

1  Of  the  same  name,  by  George  Sand. 

2  A  celebrated  actor. 


176  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

they  might  learn  address,  and  see  it  near  at  hand. 
The  power  of  a  woman  of  fashion  to  lead,  and  also  to 
daunt  and  repel,  derives  from  their  belief  that  she 
knows  resources  and  behaviors  not  known  to  them; 
but  when  these  have  mastered  her  secret,  they  learn  to 
confront  her,  and  recover  their  self-possession. 

Every  day  bears  witness  to  their  gentle  rule.  People 
•who  would  obtrude,  now  do  not  obtrude.  The  medi 
ocre  circle  learns  to  demand  that  which  belongs  to  a 
high  state  of  nature  or  of  culture.  Your  manners  are 
always  under  examination,  and  by  committees  little 
suspected,  —  a  police  in  citizens'  clothes,  —  but  are 
awarding  or  denying  you  very  high  prizes  when  you 
least  think  of  it. 

We  talk  much  of  utilities,  but 't  is  our  manners  that 
associate  us.  In  hours  of  business,  we  go  to  him  who 
knows,  or  has,  or  does  this  or  that  which  we  want,  and 
we  do  not  let  our  taste  or  feeling  stand  in  the  way. 
But  this  activity  over,  we  return  to  the  indolent  state, 
and  wish  for  those  we  can  be  at  ease  with ;  those  who 
will  go  where  we  go,  whose  manners  do  not  offend  us, 
whose  social  tone  chimes  with  ours.  When  we  reflect 
on  their  persuasive  and  cheering  force ;  how  they  rec 
ommend,  prepare,  and  draw  people  together ;  how,  in 
all  clubs,  manners  make  the  members ;  how  manners 
make  the  fortune  of  the  ambitious  youth ;  that,  for  the 
most  part,  his  manners  marry  him,  and,  for  the  most 
part,  he  marries  manners ;  when  we  think  what  keys 
they  are,  and  to  what  secrets ;  what  high  lessons  and 
inspiring  tokens  of  character  they  convey ;  and  what 
divination  is  required  in  us,  for  the  reading  of  this 
fine  telegraph,  we  see  what  range  the  subject  has,  and 
what  relations  to  convenience,  power,  and  beauty. 

Their  first  service  is  very  low,  —  when  they  are  the 


BEHAVIOR.  177 

minor  morals :  but 't  is  the  beginning  of  civility,  —  to 
make  us,  I  mean,  endurable  to  each  other.  We  prize 
them  for  their  rough-plastic,  abstergent  force ;  to  get 
people  out  of  the  quadruped  state ;  to  get  them  washed, 
clothed,  and  set  up  on  end ;  to  slough  their  animal 
husks  and  habits ;  compel  them  to  be  clean ;  overawe 
their  spite  and  meanness,  teach  them  to  stifle  the  base, 
and  choose  the  generous  expression,  and  make  them 
know  how  much  happier  the  generous  behaviors  are. 

Bad  behavior  the  laws  cannot  reach.  Society  is 
infested  with  rude,  cynical,  restless,  and  frivolous  per 
sons  who  prey  upon  the  rest,  and  whom  a  public  opinion 
concentrated  into  good  manners  —  forms  accepted  by 
the  sense  of  all  —  can  reach :  the  contradictors  and 
railers  at  public  and  private  tables,  who  are  like  ter 
riers,  who  conceive  it  the  duty  of  a  dog  of  honor  to 
growl  at  any  passer-by,  and  do  the  honors  of  the  house 
by  barking  him  out  of  sight ;  —  I  have  seen  men  who 
neigh  like  a  horse  when  you  contradict  them,  or  say 
something  which  they  do  not  understand  :  —  then  the 
overbold,  who  make  their  own  invitation  to  your 
hearth;  the  persevering  talker,  who  gives  you  his 
society  in  large,  saturating  doses ;  the  pitiers  of  them 
selves, —  a  perilous  class;  the  frivolous  Asmodeus, 
who  relies  on  you  to  find  him  in  ropes  of  sand  to 
twist;  the  monotones;  in  short,  every  stripe  of  ab 
surdity;  —  these  are  social  inflictions  which  the  magis 
trate  cannot  cure  or  defend  you  from,  and  which  must 
be  intrusted  to  the  restraining  force  of  custom,  and 
proverbs,  and  familiar  rules  of  behavior  impressed  on 
young  people  in  their  school-days. 

In  the  hotels  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  they 
print,  or  used  to  print,  among  the  rules  of  the  house, 
that  "  no  gentleman  can  be  permitted  to  come  to  the 


178  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

public  table  without  his  coat ;  "  and  in  the  same  coun 
try,  in  the  pews  of  the  churches,  little  placards  plead 
with  the  worshipper  against  the  fury  of  expectoration. 
Charles  Dickens  self-sacrificingly  undertook  the  refor 
mation  of  our  American  manners  in  unspeakable  par 
ticulars.  I  think  the  lesson  was  not  quite  lost ;  that 
it  held  bad  manners  up,  so  that  the  churls  could  see 
the  deformity.  Unhappily,  the  book  had  its  own  de 
formities.  It  ought  not  to  need  to  print  in  a  reading- 
room  a  caution  to  strangers  not  to  speak  loud ;  nor  t<~ 
persons  who  look  over  fine  engravings,  that  thej 
should  be  handled  like  cobwebs  and  butterflies'  wings ; 
nor  to  persons  who  look  at  marble  statues,  that  they 
shall  not  smite  them  with  canes.  But,  even  in  the 
perfect  civilization  of  this  city,  such  cautions  are  not 
quite  needless  in  the  Athenaeum  and  City  Library. 

Manners  are  factitious,  and  grow  out  of  circum 
stance  as  well  as  out  of  character.  If  you  look  at  the 
pictures  of  patricians  and  of  peasants,  of  different 
periods  and  countries,  you  will  see  how  well  they 
match  the  same  classes  in  our  towns.  The  modern 
aristocrat  not  only  is  well  drawn  in  Titian's  Venetian 
doges,  and  in  Eoman  coins  and  statues,  but  also  in  the 
pictures  which  Commodore  Perry  brought  home  of 
dignitaries  in  Japan.  Broad  lands  and  great  interests 
not  only  arrive  to  such  heads  as  can  manage  them,  but 
form  manners  of  power.  A  keen  eye,  too,  will  see 
nice  gradations  of  rank,  or  see  in  the  manners  the 
degree  of  homage  the  party  is  wont  to  receive.  A 
prince  who  is  accustomed  every  day  to  be  courted  and 
deferred  to  by  the  highest  grandees,  acquires  a  corre 
sponding  expectation,  and  a  becoming  mode  of  receiv 
ing  and  replying  to  this  homage. 

There  are   always  exceptional   people  and  modes, 


BEHAVIOR.  179 

English  grandees  affect  to  be  farmers.  Claverhouse 
is  a  fop,  and,  under  the  finish  of  dress,  and  levity  of 
behavior,  hides  the  terror  of  his  war.  But  Nature 
and  Destiny  are  honest,  and  never  fail  to  leave  their 
mark,  to  hang  out  a  sign  for  each  and  for  every  qual 
ity.  It  is  much  to  conquer  one's  face,  and  perhaps 
the  ambitious  youth  thinks  he  has  got  the  whole  secret 
when  he  has  learned  that  disengaged  manners  are 
commanding.  Don't  be  deceived  by  a  facile  exterior. 
Tender  men  sometimes  have  strong  wills.  We  had, 
in  Massachusetts,  an  old  statesman,  who  had  sat  all 
his  life  in  courts  and  in  chairs  of  state,  without  over 
coming  an  extreme  irritability  of  face,  voice,  and  bear 
ing  ;  when  he  spoke,  his  voice  would  not  serve  him ;  it 
cracked,  it  broke,  it  wheezed,  it  piped  :  little  cared  he ; 
he  knew  that  it  had  got  to  pipe,  or  wheeze,  or  screech 
his  argument  and  his  indignation.  When  he  sat  down, 
after  speaking,  he  seemed  in  a  sort  of  fit,  and  held  on 
to  his  chair  with  both  hands ;  but  underneath  all  this 
irritability  was  a  puissant  will,  firm  and  advancing, 
and  a  memory  in  which  lay  in  order  and  method  like 
geologic  strata  every  fact  of  his  history,  and  under  the 
control  of  his  will. 

Manners  are  partly  factitious,  but,  mainly,  there 
must  be  capacity  for  culture  in  the  blood.  Else  all 
culture  is  vain.  The  obstinate  prejudice  in  favor  of 
blood,  which  lies  at  the  base  of  the  feudal  and  mon 
archical  fabrics  of  the  Old  World,  has  some  reason 
in  common  experience.  Every  man  —  mathematician, 
artist,  soldier,  or  merchant  —  looks  with  confidence 
for  some  traits  and  talents  in  his  own  child,  which  he 
would  not  dare  to  presume  in  the  child  of  a  stranger. 
The  Orientalists  are  very  orthodox  on  this  point. 
"Take  a  thorn-bush,"  said  the  emir  Abdel-Kader, 


180  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

"  and  sprinkle  it  for  a  whole  year  with  water  ;  it  will 
yield  nothing  but  thorns.  Take  a  date-tree,  leave  it 
without  culture,  and  it  will  always  produce  dates. 
Nobility  is  the  date-tree,  and  the  Arab  populace  is  a 
bush  of  thorns." 

A  main  fact  in  the  history  of  manners  is  the  won 
derful  expressiveness  of  the  human  body.  If  it  were 
made  of  glass,  or  of  air,  and  the  thoughts  were  written 
on  steel  tablets  within,  it  could  not  publish  more  truly 
its  meaning  than  now.  Wise  men  read  very  sharply 
all  your  private  history  in  your  look  and  gait  and  be 
havior.  The  whole  economy  of  nature  is  bent  on  ex 
pression.  The  tell-tale  body  is  all  tongues.  Men  are 
like  Geneva  watches  with  crystal  faces  which  expose 
the  whole  movement.  They  carry  the  liquor  of  life 
flowing  up  and  down  in  these  beautiful  bottles,  and 
announcing  to  the  curious  how  it  is  with  them.  The 
face  and  eyes  reveal  what  the  spirit  is  doing,  how  old 
it  is,  what  aims  it  has.  The  eyes  indicate  the  antiquity 
of  the  soul,  or  through  how  many  forms  it  has  already 
ascended.  It  almost  violates  the  proprieties,  if  we 
say  above  the  breath  here,  what  the  confessing  eyes 
do  not  hesitate  to  utter  to  every  street  passenger. 

Man  cannot  fix  his  eye  on  the  sun,  and  so  far  seems 
imperfect.  In  Siberia,  a  late  traveller  found  men 
who  could  see  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  with  their  un 
armed  eye.  In  some  respects  the  animals  excel  us. 
The  birds  have  a  longer  sight,  beside  the  advantage 
by  their  wings  of  a  higher  observatory.  A  cow  can 
bid  her  calf,  by  secret  signal,  probably  of  the  eye,  to 
run  away,  or  to  lie  down  and  hide  itself.  The  jockeys 
say  of  certain  horses,  that  "  they  look  over  the  whole 
ground."  The  out-door  life,  and  hunting,  and  labor, 
give  equal  vigor  to  the  human  eye.  A  farmer  looks 


BEHA  VIOR.  181 

out  at  you  as  strong  as  the  horse  ;  his  eye-beam  is  like 
the  stroke  of  a  staff.  An  eye  can  threaten  like  a 
loaded  and  levelled  gun,  or  can  insult  like  hissing  or 
kicking ;  or,  in  its  altered  mood,  by  beams  of  kind 
ness,  it  can  make  the  heart  dance  with  joy. 

The  eye  obeys  exactly  the  action  of  the  mind. 
When  a  thought  strikes  us,  the  eyes  fix,  and  remain 
gazing  at  a  distance;  in  enumerating  the  names  of 
persons  or  of  countries,  as  France,  Germany,  Spain, 
Turkey,  the  eyes  wink  at  each  new  name.  There 
is  no  nicety  of  learning  sought  by  the  mind  which 
the  eyes  do  not  vie  in  acquiring.  "  An  artist,"  said 
Michel  Angelo,  "  must  have  his  measuring  tools  not 
in  the  hand,  but  in  the  eye  ; "  and  there  is  no  end  to 
the  catalogue  of  its  performances,  whether  in  indolent 
vision  (that  of  health  and  beauty),  or  in  strained  vi 
sion  (that  of  art  and  labor). 

Eyes  are  bold  as  lions,  —  roving,  running,  leaping, 
here  and  there,  far  and  near.  They  speak  all  lan 
guages.  They  wait  for  no  introduction ;  they  are  no 
Englishmen  ;  ask  no  leave  of  age  or  rank  ;  they  re 
spect  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  neither  learning  nor 
power,  nor  virtue,  nor  sex,  but  intrude,  and  come 
again,  and  go  through  and  through  you,  in  a  moment 
of  time.  What  inundation  of  life  and  thought  is  dis 
charged  from  one  soul  into  another,  through  them  1 
The  glance  is  natural  magic.  The  mysterious  com 
munication  established  across  a  house  between  two 
entire  strangers,  moves  all  the  springs  of  wonder. 
The  communication  by  the  glance  is  in  the  greatest 
part  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  will.  It  is  the 
bodily  symbol  of  identity  of  nature.  We  look  into 
the  eyes  to  know  if  this  other  form  is  another  self, 
and  the  eyes  will  not  lie,  but  make  a  faithful  confes- 


182  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

sion  what  inhabitant  is  there.  The  revelations  are 
sometimes  terrific.  The  confession  of  a  low,  usurping 
devil  is  there  made,  and  the  observer  shall  seem  to 
feel  the  stirring  of  owls,  and  bats,  and  horned  hoofs, 
where  he  looked  for  innocence  and  simplicity.  'T  is 
remarkable,  too,  that  the  spirit  that  appears  at  the 
windows  of  the  house  does  at  once  invest  himself  in 
a  new  form  of  his  own,  to  the  mind  of  the  beholder. 

The  eyes  of  men  converse  as  much  as  their  tongues, 
with  the  advantage,  that  the  ocular  dialect  needs  no 
dictionary,  but  is  understood  all  the  world  over. 
When  the  eyes  say  one  thing,  and  the  tongue  another, 
a  practised  man  relies  on  the  language  of  the  first. 
If  the  man  is  off  his  centre,  the  eyes  show  it.  You 
can  read  in  the  eyes  of  your  companion,  whether 
your  argument  hits  him,  though  his  tongue  will  not 
confess  it.  There  is  a  look  by  which  a  man  shows  he 
is  going  to  say  a  good  thing,  and  a  look  when  he  has 
said  it.  Vain  and  forgotten  are  all  the  fine  offers 
and  offices  of  hospitality,  if  there  is  no  holiday  in  the 
eye.  How  many  furtive  inclinations  avowed  by  the 
eye,  though  dissembled  by  the  lips !  One  comes  away 
from  a  company,  in  which,  it  may  easily  happen,  he 
has  said  nothing,  and  no  important  remark  has  been 
addressed  to  him,  and  yet,  if  in  sympathy  with  the 
society,  he  shall  not  have  a  sense  of  this  fact,  such  a 
stream  of  life  has  been  flowing  into  him,  and  out  from 
him,  through  the  eyes.  There  are  eyes,  to  be  sure, 
that  give  no  more  admission  into  the  man  than  blue 
berries.  Others  are  liquid  and  deep,  —  wells  that  a 
man  might  fall  into  ;  —  others  are  aggressive  and  de 
vouring,  seem  to  call  out  the  police,  take  all  too  much 
notice,  and  require  crowded  Broadways,  and  the  se 
curity  of  millions,  to  protect  individuals  against  them. 


BEHA  VIOR.  183 

The  military  eye  I  meet,  now  darkly  sparkling  under 
clerical,  now  under  rustic,  brows.  "Tis  the  city  of 
Lacedaemon ;  't  is  a  stack  of  bayonets.  There  are 
asking  eyes,  asserting  eyes,  prowling  eyes ;  and  eyes 
full  of  fate,  —  some  of  good,  and  some  of  sinister, 
omen.  The  alleged  power  to  charm  down  insanity,  or 
ferocity  in  beasts,  is  a  power  behind  the  eye.  It  must 
be  a  victory  achieved  in  the  will,  before  it  can  be  sig 
nified  in  the  eye.  'T  is  very  certain  that  each  man 
carries  in  his  eye  the  exact  indication  of  his  rank  in 
the  immense  scale  of  men,  and  we  are  always  learning 
to  read  it.  A  complete  man  should  need  no  auxilia 
ries  to  his  personal  presence.  Whoever  looked  on 
him  would  consent  to  his  will,  being  certified  that  his 
aims  were  generous  and  universal.  The  reason  why 
men  do  not  obey  us,  is  because  they  see  the  mud  at 
the  bottom  of  our  eye. 

If  the  organ  of  sight  is  such  a  vehicle  of  power,  the 
other  features  have  their  own.  A  man  finds  room  in 
the  few  square  inches  of  the  face  for  the  traits  of  all 
his  ancestors;  for  the  expression  of  all  his  history, 
and  his  wants.  The  sculptor,  and  Winckelmann,  and 
Lavater,  will  tell  you  how  significant  a  feature  is  the 
nose ;  how  its  form  expresses  strength  or  weakness 
of  will  and  good  or  bad  temper.  The  nose  of  Ju 
lius  Caesar,  of  Dante,  and  of  Pitt  suggest  "  the  ter 
rors  of  the  beak."  What  refinement,  and  what 
limitations,  the  teeth  betray !  "  Beware  you  don't 
laugh,"  said  the  wise  mother,  "  for  then  you  show  all 
your  faults." 

Balzac  left  in  manuscript  a  chapter,  which  he  called 
"  Theorie  de  la  demarche"  in  which  he  says :  " The 
look,  the  voice,  the  respiration,  and  the  attitude  or 
walk  are  identical.  But,  as  it  has  not  been  given  to 


184  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

man,  the  power  to  stand  guard,  at  once,  over  these 
four  different  simultaneous  expressions  of  his  thought, 
watch  that  one  which  speaks  out  the  truth,  and  you 
will  know  the  whole  man." 

Palaces  interest  us  mainly  in  the  exhibition  of  man 
ners,  which  in  the  idle  and  expensive  society  dwelling 
in  them  are  raised  to  a  high  art.  The  maxim  of 
courts  is  that  manner  is  power.  A  calm  and  resolute 
bearing,  a  polished  speech,  and  embellishment  of  tri 
fles,  and  the  art  of  hiding  all  uncomfortable  feeling, 
are  essential  to  the  courtier,  and  Saint  Simon,  and 
Cardinal  de  Ketz,  and  Roederer,  and  an  encyclopaedia 
of  Memoires  will  instruct  you,  if  you  wish,  in  those 
potent  secrets.  Thus,  it  is  a  point  of  pride  with  kings 
to  remember  faces  and  names.  It  is  reported  of  one 
prince,  that  his  head  had  the  air  of  leaning  down 
wards,  in  order  not  to  humble  the  crowd.  There  are 
people  who  come  in  ever  like  a  child  with  a  piece  of 
good  news.  It  was  said  of  the  late  Lord  Holland, 
that  he  always  came  down  to  breakfast  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  had  just  met  with  some  signal  good  for 
tune.  In  Notre  Dame  the  grandee  took  his  place 
on  the  dais,  with  the  look  of  one  who  is  thinking  of 
something  else.  But  we  must  not  peep  and  eavesdrop 
at  palace-doors. 

Fine  manners  need  the  support  of  fine  manners  ir, 
others.  A  scholar  may  be  a  well-bred  man,  or  he  may 
not.  The  enthusiast  is  introduced  to  polished  scholars 
in  society,  and  is  chilled  and  silenced  by  finding  hin> 
self  not  in  their  element.  They  all  have  somewhat 
which  he  has  not,  and,  it  seems,  ought  to  have.  But 
if  he  finds  the  scholar  apart  from  his  companions,  it 
is  then  the  enthusiast's  turn,  and  the  scholar  has  no 
defence,  but  must  deal  on  his  terms.  Now  they  must 


BEHA  VIOR.  185 

fight  the  battle  out  on  their  private  strength.  What 
is  the  talent  of  that  character  so  common,  —  the  suc 
cessful  man  of  the  world,  —  in  all  marts,  senates,  and 
drawing-rooms  ?  Manners :  manners  of  power  ;  sense 
to  see  his  advantage,  and  manners  up  to  it.  See  him 
approach  his  man.  He  knows  that  troops  behave  as 
they  are  handled  at  first ;  —  that  is  his  cheap  secret ; 
just  what  happens  to  every  two  persons  who  meet  on 
any  affair,  one  instantly  perceives  that  he  has  the  key 
of  the  situation,  that  his  will  comprehends  the  other's 
will,  as  the  cat  does  the  mouse,  and  he  has  only  to  use 
courtesy,  and  furnish  good-natured  reasons  to  his  vic 
tim  to  cover  up  the  chain,  lest  he  be  shamed  into  re 
sistance. 

The  theatre  in  which  this  science  of  manners  has  a 
formal  importance  is  not  with  us  a  court,  but  dress- 
circles,  wherein,  after  the  close  of  the  day's  business, 
men  and  women  meet  at  leisure,  for  mutual  entertain 
ment,  in  ornamented  drawing-rooms.  Of  course,  it 
has  every  variety  of  attraction  and  merit;  but,  to 
earnest  persons,  to  youths  or  maidens  who  have  great 
objects  at  heart,  we  cannot  extol  it  highly.  A  well- 
dressed,  talkative  company,  where  each  is  bent  to 
amuse  the  other,  —  yet  the  high-born  Turk  who  came 
hither  fancied  that  every  woman  seemed  to  be  suffer 
ing  for  a  chair  ;  that  all  talkers  were  brained  and  ex 
hausted  by  the  de-oxygenated  air  ;  it  spoiled  the  best 
persons :  it  put  all  on  stilts.  Yet  here  are  the  secret 
biographies  written  and  read.  The  aspect  of  that 
man  is  repulsive  ;  I  do  not  wish  to  deal  with  him. 
The  other  is  irritable,  shy,  and  on  his  guard.  The 
youth  looks  humble  and  manly :  I  choose  him.  Look 
on  this  woman.  There  is  not  beauty,  nor  brilliant  say 
ings,  nor  distinguished  power  to  serve  you ;  but  all  see 


186  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

her  gladly ;  her  whole  air  and  impression  are  health 
ful.  Here  come  the  sentimentalists,  and  the  invalids. 
Here  is  Elise,  who  caught  cold  in  coming  into  the 
world,  and  has  always  increased  it  since.  Here  are 
creep-mouse  manners  ;  and  thievish  manners.  "  Look 
at  Northcote,"  said  Fuseli ;  "  he  looks  like  a  rat  that 
has  seen  a  cat."  In  the  shallow  company,  easily  ex 
cited,  easily  tired,  here  is  the  columnar  Bernard :  the 
Alleghanies  do  not  express  more  repose  than  his  be 
havior.  Here  are  the  sweet,  following  eyes  of  Cecile : 
it  seemed  always  that  she  demanded  the  heart.  No 
thing  can  be  more  excellent  in  kind  than  the  Corin 
thian  grace  of  Gertrude's  manners,  and  yet  Blanche, 
who  has  no  manners,  has  better  manners  than  she ; 
for  the  movements  of  Blanche  are  the  sallies  of  a 
spirit  which  is  sufficient  for  the  moment,  and  she  can 
afford  to  express  every  thought  by  instant  action. 

Manners  have  been  somewhat  cynically  defined  to 
be  a  contrivance  of  wise  men  to  keep  fools  at  a  dis 
tance.  Fashion  is  shrewd  to  detect  those  who  do  not 
belong  to  her  train,  and  seldom  wastes  her  attentions. 
Society  is  very  swift  in  its  instincts,  and,  if  you  do  not 
belong  to  it,  resists  and  sneers  at  you;  or  quietly 
drops  you.  The  first  weapon  enrages  the  party  at 
tacked  ;  the  second  is  still  more  effective,  but  is  not 
to  be  resisted,  as  the  date  of  the  transaction  is  not 
easily  found.  People  grow  up  and  grow  old  under 
this  infliction,  and  never  suspect  the  truth,  ascribing 
the  solitude  which  acts  on  them  very  injuriously  to 
any  cause  but  the  right  one. 

The  basis  of  good  manners  is  self-reliance.  Neces 
sity  is  the  law  of  all  who  are  not  self-possessed.  Those 
who  are  not  self-possessed  obtrude  and  pain  us.  Some 
men  appear  to  feel  that  they  belong  to  a  Pariah  caste. 


BEHA  VIOR.  187 

They  fear  to  offend,  they  bend  and  apologize,  and 
walk  through  life  with  a  timid  step. 

As  we  sometimes  dream  that  we  are  in  a  well- 
dressed  company  without  any  coat,  so  Godfrey  acts 
ever  as  if  he  suffered  from  some  mortifying  circum 
stance.  The  hero  should  find  himself  at  home,  wher 
ever  he  is  ;  should  impart  comfort  by  his  own  security 
and  good-nature  to  all  beholders.  The  hero  is  suffered 
to  be  himself.  A  person  of  strong  mind  comes  to  per 
ceive  that  for  him  an  immunity  is  secured  so  long  as 
he  renders  to  society  that  service  which  is  native  and 
proper  to  him,  —  an  immunity  from  all  the  observ 
ances,  yea,  and  duties,  which  society  so  tyrannically  im 
poses  on  the  rank  and  file  of  its  members.  "  Euripi 
des,"  says  Aspasia,  "has  not  the  fine  manners  of 
Sophocles :  "  but,"  she  adds,  good-humoredly,  "  the 
movers  and  masters  of  our  souls  have  surely  a  right 
to  throw  out  their  limbs  as  carelessly  as  they  please  on 
the  world  that  belongs  to  them,  and  before  the  crea 
tures  they  have  animated."  l 

Manners  require  time,  as  nothing  is  more  vulgar 
than  haste.  Friendship  should  be  surrounded  with 
ceremonies  and  respects,  and  not  crushed  into  corners. 
Friendship  requires  more  time  than  poor  busy  men 
can  usually  command.  Here  comes  to  me  Roland, 
with  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  leading  and  inwrapping 
him  like  a  divine  cloud  or  holy  ghost.  'T  is  a  great 
destitution  to  both  that  this  should  not  be  entertained 
with  large  leisures,  but  contrariwise  should  be  balked 
by  importunate  affairs. 

But  through  this  lustrous  varnish,  the  reality  is  ever 
shining.  'T  is  hard  to  keep  the  what  from  breaking 
through  this  pretty  painting  of  the  how.  The  core 
1  Landor,  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 


188  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

will  come  to  the  surface.  Strong  will  and  keen  per 
ception  overpower  old  manners,  and  create  new ;  and 
the  thought  of  the  present  moment  has  a  greater  value 
than  all  the  past.  In  persons  of  character  we  do  not 
remark  manners,  because  of  their  instantaneousness. 
We  are  surprised  by  the  thing  done,  out  of  all  power 
to  watch  the  way  of  it.  Yet  nothing  is  more  charming 
than  to  recognize  the  great  style  which  runs  through 
the  action  of  such.  People  masquerade  before  us  in 
cheir  fortunes,  titles,  offices,  and  connections,  as  aca 
demic  or  civil  presidents,  or  senators,  or  professors,  or 
great  lawyers,  and  impose  on  the  frivolous,  and  a  good 
deal  on  each  other,  by  these  fames.  At  least,  it  is  a 
point  of  prudent  good  manners  to  treat  these  reputa~ 
tions  tenderly,  as  if  they  were  merited.  But  the  sad 
realist  knows  these  fellows  at  a  glance,  and  they  know 
him ;  as  when  in  Paris  the  chief  of  the  police  enters  a 
ball-room,  so  many  diamonded  pretenders  shrink  and 
make  themselves  as  inconspicuous  as  they  can,  or  give 
him  a  supplicating  look  as  they  pass.  "  I  had  re 
ceived,"  said  a  sibyl,  —  "I  had  received  at  birth  the 
fatal  gift  of  penetration ;  "  and  these  Cassandras  are 
always  born. 

Manners  impress  as  they  indicate  real  power.  A 
man  who  is  sure  of  his  point  carries  a  broad  and  con 
tented  expression,  which  everybody  reads.  And  you 
cannot  rightly  train  one  to  an  air  and  manner  except 
by  making  him  the  kind  of  man  of  whom  that  manner 
is  the  natural  expression.  Nature  forever  puts  a  pre 
mium  on  reality.  What  is  done  for  effect  is  seen  to 
be  done  for  effect ;  what  is  done  for  love  is  felt  to  be 
done  for  love.  A  man  inspires  affection  and  honorT 
because  he  was  not  lying  in  wait  for  these.  The 
things  of  a  man  for  which  we  visit  him,  were  done  in 


BEHAVIOR.  189 

the  dark  and  the  cold.  A  little  integrity  is  better 
than  any  career.  So  deep  are  the  sources  of  this  sur 
face-action,  that  even  the  size  of  your  companion  seems 
to  vary  with  his  freedom  of  thought.  Not  only  is  he 
larger,  when  at  ease,  and  his  thoughts  generous,  but 
everything  around  him  becomes  variable  with  expres 
sion.  No  carpenter's  rule,  no  rod  and  chain,  will 
measure  the  dimensions  of  any  house  or  house-lot :  go 
into  the  house :  if  the  proprietor  is  constrained  and 
deferring,  't  is  of  no  importance  how  large  his  house, 
how  beautiful  his  grounds,  —  you  quickly  come  to  the 
end  of  all ;  but  if  the  man  is  self-possessed,  happy,  and 
at  home,  his  house  is  deep-founded,  indefinitely  large 
and  interesting,  the  roof  and  dome  buoyant  as  the  sky. 
Under  the  humblest  roof,  the  commonest  person  in 
plain  clothes  sits  there  massive,  cheerful,  yet  formi 
dable  like  the  Egyptian  colossi. 

Neither  Aristotle,  nor  Leibnitz,  nor  Junius,  nor 
Champollion  has  set  down  the  grammar-rules  of  this 
dialect,  older  than  Sanscrit ;  but  they  who  cannot  yet 
read  English,  can  read  this.  Men  take  each  other's 
measure,  when  they  meet  for  the  first  time,  —  and 
every  time  they  meet.  How  do  they  get  this  rapid 
knowledge,  even  before  they  speak,  of  each  other's 
power  and  dispositions  ?  One  would  say  that  the  per 
suasion  of  their  speech  is  not  in  what  they  say,  —  or, 
that  men  do  not  convince  by  their  argument,  —  but  by 
their  personality,  by,  who  they  are,  and  what  they  said 
and  did  heretofore.  A  man  already  strong  is  listened 
to,  and  everything  he  says  is  applauded.  Another 
opposes  him  with  sound  argument,  but  the  argument 
is  scouted,  until  by  and  by  it  gets  into  the  mind  of 
some  weighty  person;  then  it  begins  to  tell  on  the 
community. 


190  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Self-reliance  is  the  basis  of  behavior,  as  it  is  the 
guaranty  that  the  powers  are  not  squandered  in  too 
much  demonstration.  In  this  country,  where  school 
education  is  universal,  we  have  a  superficial  culture, 
and  a  profusion  of  reading  and  writing  and  expres 
sion.  We  parade  our  nobilities  in  poems  and  ora 
tions,  instead  of  working  them  up  into  happiness. 
There  is  a  whisper  out  of  the  ages  to  him  who  can 
understand  it,  — "  Whatever  is  known  to  thyself 
alone  has  always  very  great  value."  There  is  some 
reason  to  believe  that,  when  a  man  does  not  write  his 
poetry,  it  escapes  by  other  vents  through  him,  instead 
of  the  one  vent  of  writing;  clings  to  his  form  and 
manners,  whilst  poets  have  often  nothing  poetical 
about  them  except  their  verses.  Jacobi  said,  that 
"  when  a  man  has  fully  expressed  his  thought,  he  has 
somewhat  less  possession  of  it."  One  would  say,  the 
rule  is,  —  What  a  man  is  irresistibly  urged  to  say, 
helps  him  and  us.  In  explaining  his  thought  to  others, 
he  explains  it  to  himself :  but  when  he  opens  it  for 
show,  it  corrupts  him. 

Society  is  the  stage  on  which  manners  are  shown ; 
novels  are  their  literature.  Novels  are  the  journal  or 
record  of  manners ;  and  the  new  importance  of  these 
books  derives  from  the  fact  that  the  novelist  begins  to 
penetrate  the  surface,  and  treat  this  part  of  life  more 
worthily.  The  novels  used  to  be  all  alike,  and  had 
a  quite  vulgar  tone.  The  novels  used  to  lead  us  on  to 
a  foolish  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  boy  and  girl 
they  described.  The  boy  was  to  be  raised  from  a 
humble  to  a  high  position.  He  was  in  want  of  a  wife 
and  a  castle,  and  the  object  of  the  story  was  to  supply 
him  with  one  or  both.  We  watched  sympathetically, 
step  by  step,  his  climbing,  until,  at  last,  the  point  is 


BEHAVIOR.  191 

gained,  the  wedding  day  is  fixed,  and  we  follow  the 
gala  procession  home  to  the  bannered  portal,  when  the 
doors  are  slammed  in  our  face,  and  the  poor  reader  is 
left  outside  in  the  cold,  not  enriched  by  so  much  as  an 
idea,  or  a  virtuous  impulse. 

But  the  victories  of  character  are  instant,  and  vic 
tories  for  all.  Its  greatness  enlarges  all.  We  are 
fortified  by  every  heroic  anecdote.  The  novels  are  as 
useful  as  Bibles,  if  they  teach  you  the  secret,  that  the 
best  of  life  is  conversation,  and  the  greatest  success  is 
confidence,  or  perfect  understanding  between  sincere 
people.  'T  is  a  French  definition  of  friendship,  rien 
que  s*  entendre,  good  understanding.  The  highest 
compact  we  can  make  with  our  fellow  is,  —  "  Let  there 
be  truth  between  us  two  for  evermore."  That  is  the 
charm  in  all  good  novels,  as  it  is  the  charm  in  all  good 
histories,  that  the  heroes  mutually  understand,  from 
the  first,  and  deal  loyally  and  with  a  profound  trust  in 
each  other.  It  is  sublime  to  feel  and  say  of  another, 
I  need  never  meet,  or  speak,  or  write  to  him :  we  need 
not  reinforce  ourselves,  or  send  tokens  of  remem-, 
brance :  I  rely  on  him  as  on  myself :  if  he  did  thus,  or 
thus,  I  know  it  was  right. 

In  all  the  superior  people  I  have  met,  I  notice  di 
rectness,  truth  spoken  more  truly,  as  if  everything  of 
obstruction,  of  malformation,  had  been  trained  away. 
What  have  they  to  conceal  ?  What  have  they  to  ex 
hibit  ?  Between  simple  and  noble  persons  there  is  al 
ways  a  quick  intelligence :  they  recognize  at  sight,  and 
meet  on  a  better  ground  than  the  talents  and  skills 
they  may  chance  to  possess,  namely,  on  sincerity  and 
uprightness.  For,  it  is  not  what  talents  or  genius 
a  man  has,  but  how  he  is  to  his  talents,  that  consti 
tutes  friendship  and  character.  The  man  that  stands 


192  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

by  himself,  the  universe  stands  by  him  also.  It  is  re 
lated  of  the  monk  Basle,  that,  being  excommunicated 
by  the  Pope,  he  was,  at  his  death,  sent  in  charge  of  an 
angel  to  find  a  fit  place  of  suffering  in  hell ;  but,  such 
was  the  eloquence  and  good-humor  of  the  monk,  that 
wherever  he  went  he  was  received  gladly,  and  civilly 
treated,  even  by  the  most  uncivil  angels :  and,  when 
he  came  to  discourse  with  them,  instead  of  contradict 
ing  or  forcing  him,  they  took  his  part,  and  adopted 
his  manners ;  and  even  good  angels  came  from  far,  to 
see  him,  and  take  up  their  abode  with  him.  The  an 
gel  that  was  sent  to  find  a  place  of  torment  for  him 
attempted  to  remove  him  to  a  worse  pit,  but  with  no 
better  success  ;  for  such  was  the  contented  spirit  of  the 
monk,  that  he  found  something  to  praise  in  every 
place  and  company,  though  in  hell,  and  made  a  kind 
of  heaven  of  it.  At  last  the  escorting  angel  returned 
with  his  prisoner  to  them  that  sent  him,  saying  that 
no  phlegethon  could  be  found  that  would  burn  him ; 
for  that  in  whatever  condition,  Basle  remained  incor 
rigibly  Basle.  The  legend  says,  his  sentence  was  re 
mitted,  and  he  was  allowed  to  go  into  heaven,  and 
was  canonized  as  a  saint. 

There  is  a  stroke  of  magnanimity  in  the  correspon 
dence  of  Bonaparte  with  his  brother  Joseph,  when  the 
latter  was  King  of  Spain,  and  complained  that  he 
missed  in  Napoleon's  letters  the  affectionate  tone 
which  had  marked  their  childish  correspondence.  "  I 
am  sorry,"  replies  Napoleon,  "you  think  you  shall 
find  your  brother  again  only  in  the  Ely  si  an  Fields. 
It  is  natural,  that  at  forty,  he  should  not  feel  towards 
you  as  he  did  at  twelve.  But  his  feelings  towards  you 
have  greater  truth  and  strength.  His  friendship  has 
the  features  of  his  mind." 


BEHA  VIOR.  193 

How  much  we  forgive  in  those  who  yield  us  the 
rare  spectacle  of  heroic  manners !  We  will  pardon 
them  the  want  of  books,  of  arts,  and  even  of  the  gen 
tler  virtues.  How  tenaciously  we  remember  them  I 
Here  is  a  lesson  which  I  brought  along  with  me  in 
boyhood  from  the  Latin  School,  and  which  ranks  with 
the  best  of  Roman  anecdotes.  Marcus  Scaurus  was 
accused  by  Quintus  Varius  Hispanus,  that  he  had  ex 
cited  the  allies  to  take  arms  against  the  Republic. 
But  he,  full  of  firmness  and  gravity,  defended  himself 
in  this  manner  :  "  Quintus  Varius  Hispanus  alleges 
that  Marcus  Scaurus,  President  of  the  Senate,  excited 
the  allies  to  arms :  Marcus  Scaurus,  President  of  the 
Senate,  denies  it.  There  is  no  witness.  Which  do 
you  believe,  Romans  ?  "  "  Utri  creditis,  Quirites  ?  " 
When  he  had  said  these  words,  he  was  absolved  by 
the  assembly  of  the  people. 

I  have  seen  manners  that  make  a  similar  impression 
with  personal  beauty ;  that  give  the  like  exhilaration, 
and  refine  us  like  that;  and,  in  memorable  experi 
ences,  they  are  suddenly  better  than  beauty,  and  make 
that  superfluous  and  ugly.  But  they  must  be  marked 
by  fine  perception,  the  acquaintance  with  real  beauty. 
They  must  always  show  self-control :  you  shall  not  be 
facile,  apologetic,  or  leaky,  but  king  over  your  word ; 
and  every  gesture  and  action  shall  indicate  power  at 
rest.  Then  they  must  be  inspired  by  the  good  heart. 
There  is  no  beautifier  of  complexion,  or  form,  or  be 
havior,  like  the  wish  to  scatter  joy  and  not  pain 
around  us.  'T  is  good  to  give  a  stranger  a  meal,  or  a 
night's  lodging.  'T  is  better  to  be  hospitable  to  his 
good  meaning  and  thought,  and  give  courage  to  a 
companion.  We  must  be  as  courteous  to  a  man  as 
we  are  to  a  picture,  which  we  ai-e  willing  to  give  the 


194  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

advantage  of  a  good  light.  Special  precepts  are  not 
to  be  thought  of:  the  talent  of  well-doing  contains 
them  all.  Every  hour  will  show  a  duty  as  paramount 
as  that  of  my  whim  just  now ;  and  yet  I  will  write  it, 
—  that  there  is  one  topic  peremptorily  forbidden  to 
all  well-bred,  to  all  rational  mortals,  namely,  their 
distempers.  If  you  have  not  slept,  or  if  you  have 
slept,  or  if  you  have  headache,  or  sciatica,  or  leprosy, 
or  thunder-stroke,  I  beseech  you,  by  all  angels,  to  hold 
your  peace,  and  not  pollute  the  morning,  to  which  all 
the  housemates  bring  serene  and  pleasant  thoughts,  by 
corruption  and  groans.  Come  out  of  the  azure. 
Love  the  day.  Do  not  leave  the  sky  out  of  your  land 
scape.  The  oldest  and  the  most  deserving  person 
should  come  very  modestly  into  any  newly  awaked 
company,  respecting  the  divine  communications,  out  of 
which  all  must  be  presumed  to  have  newly  come.  An 
old  man,  who  added  an  elevating  culture  to  a  large 
experience  of  life,  said  to  me :  "  When  you  come  into 
the  room,  I  think  I  will  study  how  to  make  humanity 
beautiful  to  you." 

As  respects  the  delicate  question  of  culture,  I  do 
not  think  that  any  other  than  negative  rules  can  be 
laid  down.  For  positive  rules,  for  suggestion,  Nature 
alone  inspires  it.  Who  dare  assume  to  guide  a  youth, 
a  maid,  to  perfect  manners  ?  —  the  golden  mean  is  so 
delicate,  difficult,  —  say  frankly,  unattainable.  What 
finest  hands  would  not  be  clumsy  to  sketch  the  genial 
precepts  of  the  young  girl's  demeanor  ?  The  chances 
seem  infinite  against  success ;  and  yet  success  is  con* 
tinually  attained.  There  must  not  be  secondariness, 
and  't  is  a  thousand  to  one  that  her  air  and  manner 
will  at  once  betray  that  she  is  not  primary,  but  that 
there  is  some  other  one  or  many  of  her  class,  to  whom 


FABLE.  195 

she  habitually  postpones  herself.  But  Nature  lifts 
her  easily,  and  without  knowing  it,  over  these  impos 
sibilities,  and  we  are  continually  surprised  with  graces 
and  felicities  not  only  uuteachable,  but  undescribable. 


THE   RHODORA: 

ON   BEING   ASKED,    WHENCE   IS   THE    FLOWER? 

IN  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool,  5 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora  !    if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky,  10 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being : 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  1 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew : 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose  is 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought 
you. 

FABLE, 

THE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "Little  Prig;" 


196  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Bun  replied, 

"  You  are  doubtless  very  big ;  5 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together, 

To  make  up  a  year 

And  a  sphere. 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace  10 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I  'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry. 

I  '11  not  deny  you  make  15 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track ; 

Talents  differ ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 


DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

"  IN  the  last  year  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  on  the  18th 
of  January,  1782,  Daniel  Webster  was  born,  in  the  home 
which  his  father  had  established  on  the  outskirts  of  civiliza 
tion.1  If  the  character  and  situation  of  the  place,  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  he  passed  the  first  years  of  his 
life,  might  seem  adverse  to  the  early  cultivation  of  his  ex 
traordinary  talent,  it  still  cannot  be  doubted  that  they  pos 
sessed  influences  favorable  to  elevation  and  strength  of  char 
acter.  The  hardships  of  an  infant  settlement  and  border 
life,  the  traditions  of  a  long  series  of  Indian  wars,  and  of 
two  mighty  national  contests,  in  which  an  honored  parent 
had  borne  his  part,  the  anecdotes  of  Fort  William  Henry, 
of  Quebec,  of  Bennington,  of  West  Point,  of  Wolfe  and 
Stark  and  Washington,  the  great  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of 
American  Independence,  —  this  was  the  fireside  entertain 
ment  of  the  long  winter  evenings  of  the  secluded  village 
home.  .  .  . 

"  Something  that  was  called  a  school  was  kept  for  two  or 
three  months  in  the  winter,  frequently  by  an  itinerant,  too 
often  a  pretender,  claiming  only  to  teach  a  little  reading, 
writing,  and  ciphering,  and  wholly  incompetent  to  give  any 
valuable  assistance  to  a  clever  youth  in  learning  either. 

"  Such  as  the  village  school  was,  Mr.  Webster  enjoyed  its 
advantages,  if  they  could  be  called  by  that  name.  It  was, 
1  Salisbury  (now  Franklin),  N.  H. 


198  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

however,  of  a  migratory  character.  When  it  was  near  his 
father's  residence  it  was  easy  to  attend ;  but  it  was  some 
times  in  a  distant  part  of  the  town,  and  sometimes  in  another 
town.  .  .  .  Poor  as  these  opportunities  of  education  were, 
they  were  bestowed  on  Mr.  Webster  more  liberally  than  on 
his  brothers.  He  showed  a  greater  eagerness  for  learning ; 
and  he  was  thought  of  too  frail  a  constitution  for  any  robust 
pursuit.  ...  It  is  probable  that  the  best  part  of  his  educa 
tion  was  derived  from  the  judicious  and  experienced  father, 
and  the  strong-minded,  affectionate,  and  ambitious  mo 
ther."  l 

His  attitude  toward  books  is  well  shown  by  the  following 
extract  from  his  Autobiography:  "I  remember  that  my 
father  brought  home  from  some  of  the  lower  towns  Pope's 
Essay  on  Man,  published  in  a  sort  of  pamphlet.  I  took  it, 
and  very  soon  could  repeat  it  from  beginning  to  end.  We 
had  so  few  books,  that  to  read  them  once  or  twice  was  no 
thing.  We  thought  they  were  all  to  be  got  by  heart." 

In  1796  Webster  went  to  Exeter  Academy,  but  poverty 
at  home  caused  his  withdrawal  in  February,  1797.  He  then 
studied  in  the  neighboring  town  of  Boscawen,  under  the 
Rev.  Samuel  Wood,  whose  entire  charge  for  board  and  in 
struction  was  $1.00  a  week.  In  1797  he  entered  Dart 
mouth  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1801,  after  four 
years  of  hard  and  telling  work ;  his  winter  vacations  were 
spent  in  teaching  school. 

Webster  next  studied  law,  but  the  need  of  money  by  him 
self  and  his  brother  Ezekiel  compelled  him  to  accept  an 
offer  to  take  charge  of  an  academy  at  Fryeburg,  Maine,  at 
a  salary  of  about  a  dollar  a  day ;  he  supported  himself  by 
copying  deeds,  and  thus  was  able  to  save  all  his  salary  as  a 
fund  for  the  further  education  of  himself  and  his  brother. 

1  See  Biographical  Memoir,  by  Edward  Everett.  From  this 
Memoir,  and  from  Lodge's  Life  of  Webster,  in  the  American 
Statesmen  Series,  most  of  the  material  of  this  sketch  has  been 
taken. 


; , 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  199 

He  resumed  the  study  of  law  in  September,  1802,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1805  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Boston.  He 
opened  an  office  at  Boscawen,  N.  H.,  but  in  September, 
1807,  moved  to  Portsmouth,  where  he  at  once  rose  to  the 
head  of  his  profession,  and  for  nine  successive  years  had  a 
large  though  not  very  lucrative  practice. 

In  1808  he  was  married  to  Miss  Grace  Fletcher  of  Hop- 
kinton,  N.  H. 

In  November,  1812,  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
National  House  of  Representatives,  where  his  great  talents 
were  at  once  recognized  ;  he  was  reflected  in  1814.  From 
1823  until  his  death  in  1852,  with  the  exception  of  about 
two  years,  he  was  constantly  in  public  life,  as  congressman, 
senator,  and  secretary  of  state. 

In  1816  he  moved  to  Boston,  and  soon  took  a  command 
ing  position  in  his  profession  of  the  law.  He  had  a  choice 
of  the  best  business  of  the  whole  country.  He  distin 
guished  himself  especially  in  the  realm  of  Constitutional 
Law,  by  which  the  rights  of  States  and  individuals  under 
the  Constitution  were  defined.  In  1818  he  argued  the 
famous  Dartmouth  College  case,  and  secured  a  decision 
declaring  unconstitutional,  on  the  ground  of  impairing  the 
obligation  of  a  contract,  an  act  of  the  New  Hampshire 
Legislature  altering  the  charter  of  the  college.  He  was 
thereafter  retained  in  almost  every  important  case  argued 
before  the  Supreme  Court  at  Washington. 

On  December  22,  1820,  the  two  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  he  delivered  his  famous 
Plymouth  Oration,  the  first  of  a  series  of  noble,  patriotic 
addresses  which  showed  him  to  be  the  greatest  orator  Amer 
ica  ever  produced.  On  June  17, 1825,  he  delivered  an  ora 
tion  at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  and  on  August  2,  1826,  his  eulogy  on  the  Ex- 
Presidents  John  Adams  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  who  died 
within  a  few  hours  of  each  other,  on  July  4,  1826,  the  fif 
tieth  anniversary  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  In 


200  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

1830,  he  made,  in  the  United  States  Senate,  his  celebrated 
Reply  to  Hayne,  in  which  he  repelled  insinuations  against 
New  England,  and  argued  against  the  right  of  nullification. 

In  1850  he  delivered  in  the  Senate  Chamber,  at  Wash 
ington,  what  is  known  as  his  Seventh  of  March  Speech. 
Henry  Cabot  Lodge  says,  in  his  Life  of  Webster,  that  at  this 
time  Webster's  place  was  at  the  head  of  a  new  party  based 
on  the  principles  which  he  had  himself  formulated  against  the 
extension  of  slavery ;  that  he  did  not  change  his  party,  and 
therefore  had  to  change  his  opinions.  In  the  Seventh  of 
March  Speech,  he  spoke  in  favor  of  enforcing  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law,  and  against  the  Wilmot  Proviso,  by  which 
slavery  was  to  be  excluded  from  all  territory  thereafter  ac 
quired.  He  depicted  at  length  the  grievances  of  the  South, 
and  said  but  little  about  those  of  the  North.  Mr.  George 
T.  Curtis,  in  his  Biography,  says  that  a  great  majority  of 
Webster's  constituents,  if  not  of  the  whole  North,  disap 
proved  of  this  speech.  The  judgment  of  many  was 
summed  up  in  Whittier's  great  poem,  Icliabod.  In  con 
nection  with  this  should  be  read  the  same  poet's  verses, 
The  Lost  Occasion.  Both  of  these  poems  refer  to  Web 
ster. 

Webster  as  an  orator  had  no  equal,  and  as  a  lawyer  no 
superior.  His  reputation  as  a  statesman,  though  for  the 
most  part  grand  and  glorious,  was,  in  the  eyes  of  many, 
dimmed  by  his  change  of  base  on  the  slavery  question.  His 
personal  appearance  was  very  remarkable  ;  he  had  a  swarthy 
complexion  and  straight  black  hair ;  his  head  was  large  and 
of  noble  shape,  with  a  broad  and  lofty  brow ;  his  features 
were  finely  cut  and  full  of  massive  strength,  and  his  eyes 
were  dark  and  deep  set.  Mr.  Lodge  says,  "  There  is  no 
man  in  all  history  who  came  into  the,  world  so  equipped 
physically  for  speech." 

Webster  died  at  Marshfield,  Mass.,  October  24,  1852, 
while  holding  the  office  of  secretary  of  state  under  Presi* 
dent  Fillmore. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

AN  ADDRESS   DELIVERED  AT   THE   LAYING   OF   THE    CORNER^ 
STONE   OF  THE   BUNKER    HILL   MONUMENT    AT    CHARLES- 
TOWN,   MASS.,    ON   THE   17TH   OF  JUNE,   1825. 

[As  early  as  1776,  some  steps  were  taken  toward  the  com 
memoration  of  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill  and  the  fall  of 
General  Warren,  who  was  buried  upon  the  hill  the  day  after 
the  action.  The  Massachusetts  Lodge  of  Masons,  over 
which  Warren  had  presided,  applied  to  the  provisional  gov 
ernment  of  Massachusetts  for  permission  to  take  up  his  re 
mains  and  to  bury  them  with  the  usual  solemnities.  The 
council  granted  this  request,  on  condition  that  it  should  be 
carried  into  effect  in  such  a  manner  that  the  government  of 
the  Colony  might  have  an  opportunity  to  erect  a  monument 
to  his  memory.  A  funeral  procession  was  had,  and  a  eulogy 
on  General  Warren  was  delivered  by  Perez  Morton,  but  no 
measures  were  taken  toward  building  a  monument. 

A  resolution  was  adopted  by  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States  on  the  8th  of  April,  1777,  directing  that  monuments 
should  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  General  Warren,  in 
Boston,  and  of  General  Mercer,  at  Fredericksburg ;  but  this 
resolution  has  remained  to  the  present  time  unexecuted. 

On  the  llth  of  November,  1794,  a  committee  was  ap 
pointed  by  King  Solomon's  Lodge,  at  Charlestown,1  to  take 
measures  for  the  erection  of  a  monument  to  the  memory  of 
General  Joseph  Warren,  at  the  expense  of  the  lodge.  This 
resolution  was  promptly  carried  into  effect.  The  land  for 

1  General  Warren,  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  was  Grand 
Master  of  the  Masonic  Lodges  in  America. 


202  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

this  purpose  was  presented  to  the  lodge  by  the  Hon.  James 
Russell,  of  Charlestown,  and  it  was  dedicated  with  appro 
priate  ceremonies  on  the  2d  of  December,  1794.  It  was  a 
wooden  pillar  of  the  Tuscan  order,  eighteen  feet  in  height, 
raised  on  a  pedestal  eight  feet  square,  and  of  an  elevation 
of  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  The  pillar  was  surmounted 
by  a  gilt  urn.  An  appropriate  inscription  was  placed  on  the 
south  side  of  the  pedestal. 

In  February,  1818,  a  committee  of  the  legislature  of 
Massachusetts  was  appointed  to  consider  the  expediency  of 
building  a  monument  of  American  marble  to  the  memory 
of  General  Warren,  but  this  proposal  was  not  carried  into 
effect. 

As  the  half-century  from  the  date  of  the  battle  drew  to 
ward  a  close,  a  stronger  feeling  of  the  duty  of  commemo 
rating  it  began  to  be  awakened  in  the  community.  Among 
those  who  from  the  first  manifested  the  greatest  interest  in 
the  subject  was  the  late  William  Tudor,  Esq.  He  expressed 
the  wish,  in  a  letter  still  preserved,  to  see  upon  the  battle 
ground  "  the  noblest  monument  in  the  world,"  and  he  was 
so  ardent  and  persevering  in  urging  the  project,  that  it  has 
been  stated  that  he  first  conceived  the  idea  of  it.  The  steps 
taken  in  execution  of  the  project,  from  the  earliest  private 
conferences  among  the  gentlemen  first  engaged  in  it  to  its 
final  completion,  are  accurately  sketched  by  Mr.  Richard 
Frothingham,  Jr.,  in  his  valuable  History  of  the  Siege  of 
Boston.  All  the  material  facts  contained  in  this  note  are 
derived  from  his  chapter  on  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 
After  giving  an  account  of  the  organization  of  the  society, 
the  measures  adopted  for  the  collection  of  funds,  and  the 
deliberations  on  the  form  of  the  monument,  Mr.  Frothing 
ham  proceeds  as  follows  :  — 

"  It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  enterprise  that  the  directors 
proposed  to  lay  the  corner-stone  of  the  monument,  and 
ground  was  broken  (June  7th)  for  this  purpose.  As  a 
aaark  of  respect  to  the  liberality  arid  patriotism  of  King 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         203 

Solomon's  Lodge,  they  invited  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Grand  Lodge  of  Massachusetts  to  perform  the  ceremony. 
They  also  invited  General  Lafayette  to  accompany  the 
President  of  the  Association,  Hon.  Daniel  Webster,  and 
assist  in  it. 

"This  celebration  was  unequalled  in  magnificence  by 
anything  of  the  kind  that  had  been  seen  in  New  England. 
The  morning  proved  propitious.  The  air  was  cool,  the  sky 
was  clear,  and  timely  showers  the  previous  day  had  bright 
ened  the  vesture  of  nature  into  its  loveliest  hue.  Delighted 
thousands  flocked  into  Boston  to  bear  a  part  in  the  proceed 
ings,  or  to  witness  the  spectacle.  At  about  ten  o'clock  a 
procession  moved  from  the  State  House  towards  Bunker 
Hill.  The  military,  in  their  fine  uniforms,  formed  the  van. 
About  two  hundred  veterans  of  the  Revolution,  of  whom 
forty  were  survivors  of  the  battle,  rode  in  barouches  next 
to  the  escort.  These  venerable  men,  the  relics  of  a  past 
generation,  with  emaciated  frames,  tottering  limbs,  and 
trembling  voices,  constituted  a  touching  spectacle.  Some 
wore,  as  honorable  decorations,  their  old  fighting  equip 
ments,  and  some  bore  the  scars  of  still  more  honorable 
wounds.  Glistening  eyes  constituted  their  answer  to  the  en 
thusiastic  cheers  of  the  grateful  multitudes  who  lined  their 
pathway  and  cheered  their  progress.  To  this  patriot  band 
succeeded  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  Association.  Then 
the  Masonic  fraternity,  in  their  splendid  regalia,  thousands 
in  number.  Then  Lafayette,  continually  welcomed  by  tokens 
of  love  and  gratitude,  and  the  invited  guests.  Then  a  long 
array  of  societies,  with  their  various  badges  and  banners. 
It  was  a  splendid  procession,  and  of  such  length  that  the 
front  nearly  reached  Charlestown  Bridge  ere  the  rear  had 
left  Boston  Common.  It  proceeded  to  Breed's  Hill,  where 
the  Grand  Master  of  the  Freemasons,  the  President  of  the 
Monument  Association,  and  General  Lafayette  performed 
the  ceremony  of  laying  the  corner-stone,  in  the  presence  of 
a  vast  concourse  of  people." 


204  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

The  procession  then  moved  to  a  spacious  amphitheatre 
on  the  northern  declivity  of  the  hill,  where  the  following 
address  was  delivered  by  Mr.  Webster,  in  the  presence  of 
as  great  a  multitude  perhaps  as  was  ever  assembled  within 
the  sound  of  a  human  voice.] 

THIS  uncounted  multitude  before  me  and  around 
me  proves  the  feeling  which  the  occasion  has  excited. 
These  thousands  of  human  faces,  glowing  with  sym 
pathy  and  joy,  and  from  the  impulses  of  a  common 
gratitude  turned  reverently  to  heaven  in  this  spacious 
temple  of  the  firmament,  proclaim  that  the  day,  the 
place,  and  the  purpose  of  our  assembling  have  made 
a  deep  impression  on  our  hearts. 

If,  indeed,  there  be  anything  in  local  association  fit 
to  affect  the  mind  of  man,  we  need  not  strive  to  re 
press  the  emotions  which  agitate  us  here.  We  are 
among  the  sepulchres  of  our  fathers.  We  are  on 
ground  distinguished  by  their  valor,  their  constancy, 
and  the  shedding  of  their  blood.  We  are  here,  not 
to  fix  an  uncertain  date  in  our  annals,  nor  to  draw 
into  notice  an  obscure  and  unknown  spot.  If  our 
humble  purpose  had  never  been  conceived,  if  we  our 
selves  had  never  been  born,  the  17th  of  June,  1775, 
would  have  been  a  day  on  which  all  subsequent  his 
tory  would  have  poured  its  light,  and  the  eminence 
where  we  stand  a  point  of  attraction  to  the  eyes  of 
successive  generations.  But  we  are  Americans.  We 
live  in  what  may  be  called  the  early  age  of  this  great 
continent ;  and  we  know  that  our  posterity,  through 
all  time,  are  here  to  enjoy  and  suffer  the  allotments 
of  humanity.  We  see  before  us  a  probable  train  of 
great  events;  we  know  that  our  own  fortunes  have 
been  happily  cast ;  and  it  is  natural,  therefore,  that 


THE    BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.        205 

we  should  be  moved  by  the  contemplation  of  occur 
rences  which  have  guided  our  destiny  before  many  of 
us  were  born,  and  settled  the  condition  in  which  we 
should  pass  that  portion  of  our  existence  which  God 
allows  to  men  on  earth. 

We  do  not  read  even  of  the  discovery  of  this  con 
tinent,  without  feeling  something  of  a  personal  inter 
est  in  the  event ;  without  being  reminded  how  much 
it  has  affected  our  own  fortunes  and  our  own  exist 
ence.  It  would  be  still  more  unnatural  for  us,  there 
fore,  than  for  others,  to  contemplate  with  unaffected 
minds  that  interesting,  I  may  say  that  most  touch 
ing  and  pathetic  scene,  when  the  great  discoverer  of 
America  stood  on  the  deck  of  his  shattered  bark,  the 
shades  of  night  falling  on  the  sea,  yet  no  man  sleep 
ing  ;  tossed  on  the  billows  of  an  unknown  ocean,  yet 
the  stronger  billows  of  alternate  hope  and  despair 
tossing  his  own  troubled  thoughts ;  extending  forward 
his  harassed  frame,  straining  westward  his  anxious 
and  eager  eyes,  till  Heaven  at  last  granted  him  a  mo 
ment  of  rapture  and  ecstasy,  in  blessing  his  vision 
with  the  sight  of  the  unknown  world. 

Nearer  to  our  times,  more  closely  connected  with 
our  fates,  and  therefore  still  more  interesting  to  our 
feelings  and  affections,  is  the  settlement  of  our  own 
country  by  colonists  from  England.  We  cherish  every 
memorial  of  these  worthy  ancestors ;  we  celebrate  their 
patience  and  fortitude ;  we  admire  their  daring  enter 
prise  ;  we  teach  our  children  to  venerate  their  piety ; 
and  we  are  justly  proud  of  being  descended  from 
men  who  have  set  the  world  an  example  of  founding 
civil  institutions  on  the  great  and  united  principles  of 
human  freedom  and  human  knowledge.  To  us,  their 
children,  the  story  of  their  labors  and  sufferings  can 


206  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

never  be  without  interest.  We  shall  not  stand  un 
moved  on  the  shore  of  Plymouth,  while  the  sea  con 
tinues  to  wash  it ;  nor  will  our  brethren  in  another 
early  and  ancient  Colony  forget  the  place  of  its  first 
establishment,  till  their  river  shall  cease  to  flow  by  it.1 
No  vigor  of  youth,  no  maturity  of  manhood,  will  lead 
the  nation  to  forget  the  spots  where  its  infancy  was 
cradled  and  defended. 

But  the  great  event  in  the  history  of  the  continent, 
which  we  are  now  met  here  to  commemorate,  that 
prodigy  of  modern  times,  at  once  the  wonder  and  the 
blessing  of  the  world,  is  the  American  Revolution. 
In  a  day  of  extraordinary  prosperity  and  happiness, 
of  high  national  honor,  distinction,  and  power,  we  are 
brought  together,  in  this  place,  by  our  love  of  country, 
by  our  admiration  of  exalted  character,  by  our  grati 
tude  for  signal  services  and  patriotic  devotion. 

The  Society  whose  organ  I  am  2  was  formed  for  the 
purpose  of  rearing  some  honorable  and  durable  monu 
ment  to  the  memory  of  the  early  friends  of  American 
Independence.  They  have  thought  that  for  this  ob 
ject  no  time  could  be  more  propitious  than  the  present 
prosperous  and  peaceful  period ;  that  no  place  could 

1  An  interesting  account  of  the  voyage  of  the  early  emigrants 
to  the  Maryland  Colony,  and  of  its  settlement,  is  given  in  the 
official  report  of  Father  White,  written  probably  within  the  first 
month  after  the  landing  at  St.  Mary's.    The  original  Latin  man 
uscript  is  still  preserved  among  the  archives  of  the  Jesuits  at 
Rome.     The  Ark  and  the  Dove  are  remembered  with  scarcely 
less  interest  by  the  descendants  of  the  sister  colony,  than  is  the 
Mayflower  in  New  England,  which  thirteen  years  earlier,  at  the 
same  season  of  the  year,  bore  thither  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. 

2  Mr.  Webster  was  at  this  time  President  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
Monument  Association,  chosen  on  the  death  of  Governor  John 
Brooks,  the  first  President. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         207 

claim  preference  over  this  memorable  spot ;  and  that 
no  day  could  be  more  auspicious  to  the  undertaking, 
than  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  which  was  here 
fought.  The  foundation  of  that  monument  we  have 
now  laid.  With  solemnities  suited  to  the  occasion, 
with  prayers  to  Almighty  God  for  his  blessing,  and  in 
the  midst  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses,  we  have  begun 
the  work.  We  trust  it  will  be  prosecuted,  and  that, 
springing  from  a  broad  foundation,  rising  high  in  mas 
sive  solidity  and  unadorned  grandeur,  it  may  remain 
as  long  as  Heaven  permits  the  works  of  man  to  last, 
a  fit  emblem,  both  of  the  events  in  memory  of  which 
it  is  raised,  and  of  the  gratitude  of  those  who  have 
reared  it. 

We  know,  indeed,  that  the  record  of  illustrious  ac 
tions  is  most  safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remem 
brance  of  mankind.  We  know,  that  if  we  could  cause 
this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only  till  it  reached  the 
skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad  surfaces  could 
still  contain  but  part  of  that  which,  in  an  age  of  know 
ledge,  hath  already  been  spread  over  the  earth,  and 
which  history  charges  itself  with  making  known  to  all 
future  times.  We  know  that  no  inscription  on  entab 
latures  less  broad  than  the  earth  itself  can  carry  in 
formation  of  the  events  we  commemorate  where  it  has 
not  already  gone ;  and  that  no  structure,  which  shall 
not  outlive  the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge 
among  men,  can  prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  ob 
ject  is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show  our  own  deep  sense  of 
the  value  and  importance  of  the  achievements  of  our 
ancestors ;  and,  by  presenting  this  work  of  gratitude 
to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar  sentiments,  and  to 
foster  a  constant  regard  for  the  principles  of  the  Rev 
olution.  Human  beings  are  composed,  not  of  reason 


208  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

only,  but  of  imagination  also,  and  sentiment ;  and  that 
is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied  which  is  appropri 
ated  to  the  purpose  of  giving  right  direction  to  senti 
ments,  and  opening  proper  springs  of  feeling  in  the 
heart.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  is  to 
perpetuate  national  hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a  mere 
military  spirit.  It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler.  We  con 
secrate  our  work  to  the  spirit  of  national  indepen 
dence,  and  we  wish  that  the  light  of  peace  may  rest 
upon  it  for  ever.  We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  convic 
tion  of  that  unmeasured  benefit  which  has  been  con 
ferred  on  our  own  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences 
which  have  been  produced,  by  the  same  events,  on  the 
general  interests  of  mankind.  We  come,  as  Ameri 
cans,  to  mark  a  spot  which  must  forever  be  dear  to  us 
and  our  posterity.  We  wish  that  whosoever,  in  all 
coming  time,  shall  turn  his  eye  hither,  may  behold 
that  the  place  is  not  undistinguished  where  the  first 
great  battle  of  the  ^Revolution  was  fought.  We  wish 
that  this  structure  may  proclaim  the  magnitude  and 
importance  of  that  event  to  every  class  and  every  age. 
We  wish  that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its 
erection  from  maternal  lips,  and  that  weary  and  with 
ered  age  may  behold  it,  and  be  solaced  by  the  recol 
lections  which  it  suggests.  We  wish  that  labor  may 
look  up  here,  and  be  proud,  in  the  midst  of  its  toil. 
We  wish  that,  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as  they 
come  upon  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  upon 
us  also,  desponding  patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hith- 
erward,  and  be  assured  that  the  foundations  of  out 
pational  power  are  still  strong.  We  wish  that  this 
column,  rising  towards  heaven  among  the  pointed 
spires  of  so  many  temples  dedicated  to  God,  may  con 
tribute  also  to  produce,  in  all  minds,  a  pious  feeling 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         209 

of  dependence  and  gratitude.  We  wish,  finally,  that 
the  last  object  to  the  sight  of  him  who  leaves  his  na 
tive  shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  him  who  revisits  it, 
may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the  lib 
erty  and  the  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise !  let  it 
rise,  till  it  meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest 
light  of  the  morning  gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger 
and  play  on  its  summit. 

We  live  in  a  most  extraordinary  age.  Events  so 
various  and  so  important  that  they  might  crowd  and 
distinguish  centuries  are,  in  our  times,  compressed 
within  the  compass  of  a  single  life.  When  has  it 
happened  that  history  has  had  so  much  to  record,  in 
the  same  term  of  years,  as  since  the  17th  of  June, 
1775  ?  Our  own  revolution,  which,  under  other  cir 
cumstances,  might  itself  have  been  expected  to  occa 
sion  a  war  of  half  a  century,  has  been  achieved ; 
twenty-four  sovereign  and  independent  States  erected ; 
and  a  general  government  established  over  them,  so 
safe,  so  wise,  so  free,  so  practical,  that  we  might  well 
wonder  its  establishment  should  have  been  accom 
plished  so  soon,  were  it  not  far  the  greater  wonder 
that  it  should  have  been  established  at  all.  Two  or 
three  millions  of  people  have  been  augmented  to 
twelve,  the  great  forests  of  the  West  prostrated  be 
neath  the  arm  of  successful  industry,  and  the  dwellers 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi  become 
the  fellow-citizens  and  neighbors  of  those  who  culti 
vate  the  hills  of  New  England.1  We  have  a  commerce 

1  That  which  was  spoken  of  figuratively  in  1825  has,  in  the 
lapse  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  by  the  introduction  of  railroads 
and  telegraphic  lines,  become  a  reality.  It  is  an  interesting 
circumstance,  that  the  first  railroad  on  the  Western  Continent 
was  constructed  for  the  purpose  of  accelerating  the  erection  of 
this  monument.  —  Edward  Everett,  in  1851. 


210  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

that  leaves  no  sea  unexplored  ;  navies  which  take  no 
law  from  superior  force  ;  revenues  adequate  to  all  the 
exigencies  of  government,  almost  without  taxation; 
and  peace  with  all  nations,  founded  on  equal  rights 
and  mutual  respect. 

Europe,  within  the  same  period,  has  been  agitated 
by  a  mighty  revolution,  which,  while  it  has  been  felt 
in  the  individual  condition  and  happiness  of  almost 
every  man,  has  shaken  to  the  centre  her  political  fab 
ric,  and  dashed  against  one  another  thrones  which 
had  stood  tranquil  for  ages.  On  this,  our  continent, 
our  own  example  has  been  followed,  and  colonies  have 
sprung  up  to  be  nations.  Unaccustomed  sounds  of 
liberty  and  free  government  have  reached  us  from  be 
yond  the  track  of  the  sun ;  and  at  this  moment  the 
dominion  of  European  power  in  this  continent,  from 
the  place  where  we  stand  to  the  south  pole,  is  annihil 
ated  for  ever.1 

In  the  mean  time,  both  in  Europe  and  America, 
such  has  been  the  general  progress  of  knowledge,  such 
the  improvement  in  legislation,  in  commerce,  in  the 
arts,  in  letters,  and,  above  all,  in  liberal  ideas  and  the 
general  spirit  of  the  age,  that  the  whole  world  seems 
changed. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  that  this  is  but  a  faint  ab 
stract  of  the  things  which  have  happened  since  the  day 
of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  we  are  but  fifty  years 
removed  from  it ;  and  we  now  stand  here  to  enjoy  all 
the  blessings  of  our  own  condition,  and  to  look  abroad 
on  the  brightened  prospects  of  the  world,  while  we 
still  have  among  us  some  of  those  who  were  active 
agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are  now  here, 

1  This  has  special  reference  to  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  then 
fresh  in  the  minds  of  Mr.  Webster  and  his  hearers. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         211 

from  every  quarter  of  New  England,  to  visit  once  more, 
and  under  circumstances  so  affecting,  I  had  almost 
said  so  overwhelming,  this  renowned  theatre  of  their 
courage  and  patriotism. 

VENEEABLE  MEN  !  you  have  come  down  to  us  from  a 
former  generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  length 
ened  out  your  lives,  that  you  might  behold  this  joyous 
day.  You  are  now  where  you  stood  fifty  years  ago, 
this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers  and  your  neighbors? 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  strife  for  your  country. 
Behold,  how  altered !  The  same  heavens  are  indeed 
over  your  heads ;  the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet ; 
but  all  else  how  changed !  You  hear  now  no  roar  of 
hostile  cannon,  you  see  no  mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and 
flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The  ground 
strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying ;  the  impetuous 
charge ;  the  steady  and  successful  repulse ;  the  loud 
call  to  repeated  assault ;  the  summoning  of  all  that  is 
manly  to  repeated  resistance  ;  a  thousand  bosoms 
freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever 
of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and  death ;  —  all  these 
you  have  witnessed,  but  you  witness  them  no  more. 
All  is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis, 
its  towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled  with 
wives  and  children  and  countrymen  in  distress  and 
terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the 
issue  of  the  combat,  have  presented  you  to-day  with 
the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  population,  come  out  to 
welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee.  Yon 
der  proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  appropriately- 
lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming  fondly  to 
cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance  to  you, 
but  your  country's  own  means  of  distinction  aud 


212  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

defence.1  All  is  peace;  and  God  has  granted  you 
this  sight  of  your  country's  happiness,  ere  you  slumber 
in  the  grave.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to 
partake  the  reward  of  your  patriotic  toils ;  and  he  has 
allowed  us,  your  sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you 
here,  and  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation,  in  the 
name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank 
you! 

But,  alas !  you  are  not  all  here !  Time  and  the 
sword  have  thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam, 
Stark,  Brooks,  Read,  Pomeroy,  Bridge !  our  eyes  seek 
for  you  in  vain  amid  this  broken  band.  You  are 
gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only  to  your  coun 
try  in  her  grateful  remembrance  and  your  own  bright 
example.  But  let  us  not  too  much  grieve,  that  you 
have  met  the  common  fate  of  men.  You  lived  at 
least  long  enough  to  know  that  your  work  had  been 
nobly  and  successfully  accomplished.  You  lived  to 
see  your  country's  independence  established,  and  to 
sheathe  your  swords  from  war.  On  the  light  of  Lib 
erty  you  saw  arise  the  light  of  Peace,  like 

"  another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid-noon  ; " 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloud 
less. 

But,  ah !  Him !  the  first  great  martyr  in  this  great 
cause  !  Him  !  the  premature  victim  of  his  own  self- 
devoting  heart !  Him  !  the  head  of  our  civil  councils, 
and  the  destined  leader  of  our  military  bands,  whom 
nothing  brought  hither  but  the  unquenchable  fire  of 
his  own  spirit !  Him  !  cut  off  by  Providence  in  the 

1  It  is  necessary  to  inform  those  only  who  are  unacquainted 
with  the  localities,  that  the  United  States  Navy  Yard  at 
Charlestown  is  situated  at  the  base  of  Bunker  Hill. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         213 

hour  of  overwhelming  anxiety  and  thick  gloom ;  fall 
ing  ere  he  saw  the  star  of  his  country  rise ;  pouring 
out  his  generous  blood  like  water,  before  he  knew 
whether  it  would  fertilize  a  land  of  freedom  or  of 
bondage !  —  how  shall  I  struggle  with  the  emotions 
that  stifle  the  utterance  of  thy  name  1 1  Our  poor 
•work  may  perish ;  but  thine  shall  endure  !  This  mon 
ument  may  moulder  away  ;  the  solid  ground  it  rests 
upon  may  sink  down  to  a  level  with  the  sea ;  but  thy 
memory  shall  not  fail !  Wheresoever  among  men  a 
heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the  transports  of 
patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations  shall  be  to  claim 
kindred  with  thy  spirit. 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  does  not  per 
mit  us  to  confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to 
those  fearless  spirits  who  hazarded  or  lost  their  lives 
on  this  consecrated  spot.  We  have  the  happiness  to 
rejoice  here  in  the  presence  of  a  most  worthy  repre 
sentation  of  the  survivors  of  the  whole  Revolutionary 
army. 

VETERANS  !  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well- 
fought  field.  You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor 
from  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  from  Yorktown,  Cam- 
den,  Bennington,  and  Saratoga.  VETERANS  OF  HALF 
A  CENTURY!  when  in  your  youthful  days  you  put 
every  thing  at  hazard  in  your  country's  cause,  good  as 
that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth  is,  still  your 
fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to  an  hour  like 
this  !  At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably 
have  expected  to  arrive,  at  a  moment  of  national  pros 
perity  such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen,  you  are 
now  met  here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers, 
and  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

1  The  name  of  Joseph  Warren  was  very  dear  to  Americans 
of  Wehster's  day. 


214  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving 
breasts  inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed 
joy.  I  perceive  that  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings 
rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the  dead,  as  well 
as  the  persons  of  the  living,  present  themselves  before 
you.  The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I  turn  from  it. 
May  the  Father  of  all  mercies  smile  upon  your  declin 
ing  years,  and  bless  them  !  And  when  you  shall  here 
have  exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once 
more  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so  often 
extended  to  give  succor  in  adversity,  or  grasped  in 
the  exultation  of  victory,  then  look  abroad  upon  this 
lovely  land  which  your  young  valor  defended,  and 
mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look 
abroad  upon  the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you 
have  contributed  to  give  to  your  country,  and  what 
a  praise  you  have  added  to  freedom,  and  then  rejoice 
in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam  upon  your 
last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind ! 

The  occasion  does  not  require  of  me  any  particular 
account  of  the  battle  of  the  17th  of  June,  1775,  nor 
any  detailed  narrative  of  the  events  which  immedi 
ately  preceded  it.  These  are  familiarly  known  to  all. 
In  the  progress  of  the  great  and  interesting  contro 
versy,  Massachusetts  and  the  town  of  Boston  had  be 
come  early  and  marked  objects  of  the  displeasure  of 
the  British  Parliament.  This  had  been  manifested 
in  the  act  for  altering  the  government  of  the  Pro 
vince,  and  in  that  for  shutting  up  the  port  of  Boston. 
Nothing  sheds  more  honor  on  our  early  history,  and 
nothing  better  shows  how  little  the  feelings  and  sen 
timents  of  the  Colonies  were  known  or  regarded  in 
England,  than  the  impression  which  these  measures 
everywhere  produced  in  America.  It  had  been  anti- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         215 

cipated,  that  while  the  Colonies  in  general  would  be 
terrified  by  the  severity  of  the  punishment  inflicted 
on  Massachusetts,  the  other  seaports  would  be  gov 
erned  by  a  mere  spirit  of  gain ;  and  that,  as  Boston 
was  now  cut  off  from  all  commerce,  the  unexpected 
advantage  which  this  blow  on  her  was  calculated  to 
confer  on  other  towns  would  be  greedily  enjoyed. 
How  miserably  such  reasoners  deceived  themselves ! 
How  little  they  knew  of  the  depth,  and  the  strength, 
and  the  intenseness  of  that  feeling  of  resistance  to 
illegal  acts  of  power,  which  possessed  the  whole  Amer 
ican  people !  Everywhere  the  unworthy  boon  was 
rejected  with  scorn.  The  fortunate  occasion  was 
seized,  everywhere,  to  show  to  the  whole  world  that 
the  Colonies  were  swayed  by  no  local  interest,  no  par 
tial  interest,  no  selfish  interest.  The  temptation  to 
profit  by  the  punishment  of  Boston  was  strongest  to 
our  neighbors  of  Salem.  Yet  Salem  was  precisely 
the  place  where  this  miserable  proffer  was  spurned, 
in  a  tone  of  the  most  lofty  self-respect  and  the  most 
indignant  patriotism.  "We  are  deeply  affected/' 
said  its  inhabitants,  "with  the  sense  of  our  public 
calamities ;  but  the  miseries  that  are  now  rapidly  has 
tening  on  our  brethren  in  the  capital  of  the  Province 
greatly  excite  our  commiseration.  By  shutting  up  the 
port  of  Boston  some  imagine  that  the  course  of  trade 
might  be  turned  hither  and  to  our  benefit ;  but  we 
must  be  dead  to  every  idea  of  justice,  lost  to  all  feel 
ings  of  humanity,  could  we  indulge  a  thought  to  seize 
on  wealth  and  raise  our  fortunes  on  the  ruin  of  our 
Buffering  neighbors."  These  noble  sentiments  were 
not  confined  to  our  immediate  vicinity.  In  that  day 
of  general  affection  and  brotherhood,  the  blow  given 
to  Boston  smote  on  every  patriotic  heart  from  one 


216  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

end  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Virginia  and  the 
Carolinas,  as  well  as  Connecticut  and  New  Hampshire, 
felt  and  proclaimed  the  cause  to  be  their  own.  The 
Continental  Congress,  then  holding  its  first  session  in 
Philadelphia,  expressed  its  sympathy  for  the  suffering 
inhabitants  of  Boston,  and  addresses  were  received 
from  all  quarters,  assuring  them  that  the  cause  was  a 
common  one,  and  should  be  met  by  common  efforts 
and  common  sacrifices.  The  Congress  of  Massachu 
setts  responded  to  these  assurances  ;  and  in  an  address 
to  the  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  bearing  the  official 
signature,  perhaps  among  the  last,  of  the  immortal 
Warren,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of  its  suffering 
and  the  magnitude  of  the  dangers  which  threatened  it, 
it  was  declared  that  this  Colony  "  is  ready,  at  all  times, 
to  spend  and  to  be  spent  in  the  cause  of  America." 

But  the  hour  drew  nigh  which  was  to  put  profes 
sions  to  the  proof,  and  to  determine  whether  the  au 
thors  of  these  mutual  pledges  were  ready  to  seal  them 
in  blood.  The  tidings  of  Lexington  and  Concord  had 
no  sooner  spread,  than  it  was  universally  felt  that  the 
time  was  at  last  come  for  action.  A  spirit  pervaded 
all  ranks,  not  transient,  not  boisterous,  but  deep,  sol 
emn,  determined,  — 

"  Totamque  inf  usa  per  artus 
Meus  agitat  molem,  et  magno  se  corpore  miscet."  1 

"War  on  their  own  soil  and  at  their  own  doors,  was, 
indeed,  a  strange  work  to  the  yeomanry  of  New  Eng 
land  ;  but  their  consciences  were  convinced  of  its  ne 
cessity,  their  country  called  them  to  it,  and  they  did 
not  withhold  themselves  from  the  perilous  trial.  The 

1  "And  a  Mind,  diffused  throughout  the  members,  gives  en 
ergy  to  the  whole  mass,  and  mingles  with  the  vast  body." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         217 

ordinary  occupations  of  life  were  abandoned ;  the 
plough  was  stayed  in  the  unfinished  furrow  ;  wives 
gave  up  their  husbands,  and  mothers  gave  up  their 
sons,  to  the  battles  of  a  civil  war.  Death  might  come 
to  honor,  on  the  field  ;  it  might  come,  in  disgrace,  on 
fche  scaffold.  For  either  and  for  both  they  were  pre 
pared.  The  sentiment  of  Quincy  was  full  in  their 
hearts.  "  Blandishments,"  said  that  distinguished  son 
of  genius  and  patriotism,  "  will  not  fascinate  us,  nor 
will  threats  of  a  halter  intimidate ;  for,  under  God, 
we  are  determined,  that,  wheresoever,  whensoever,  or 
howsoever,  we  shall  be  called  to  make  our  exit,  we  will 
die  free  men." 

The  17th  of  June  saw  the  four  New  England  Colo 
nies  standing  here,  side  by  side,  to  triumph  or  to  fall 
together ;  and  there  was  with  them  from  that  moment 
to  the  end  of  the  war,  what  I  hope  will  remain  with 
them  for  ever,  —  one  cause,  one  country,  one  heart. 

The  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  attended  with  the 
most  important  effects  beyond  its  immediate  results  as 
a  military  engagement.  It  created  at  once  a  state  of 
open,  public  war.  There  could  now  be  no  longer  a 
question  of  proceeding  against  individuals,  as  guilty 
of  treason  or  rebellion.  That  fearful  crisis  was  past. 
The  appeal  lay  to  the  sword,  and  the  only  question 
was,  whether  the  spirit  and  the  resources  of  the  people 
would  hold  out  till  the  object  should  be  accomplished. 
Nor  were  its  general  consequences  confined  to  our  own 
country.  The  previous  proceedings  of  the  Colonies, 
their  appeals,  resolutions,  and  addresses,  had  made 
their  cause  known  to  Europe.  Without  boasting,  we 
may  say,  that  in  no  age  or  country  has  the  public 
cause  been  maintained  with  more  force  of  argument, 
more  power  of  illustration,  or  more  of  that  persuasion 


218  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

which  excited  feeling  and  elevated  principle  can  alone 
bestow,  than  the  Revolutionary  state  papers  exhibit. 
These  papers  will  forever  deserve  to  be  studied,  not 
only  for  the  spirit  which  they  breathe,  but  for  the 
ability  with  which  they  were  written. 

To  this  able  vindication  of  their  cause,  the  Colonies 
had  now  added  a  practical  and  severe  proof  of  their 
own  true  devotion  to  it,  and  given  evidence  also  of  the 
power  which  they  could  bring  to  its  support.  All  now 
saw,  that  if  America  fell,  she  would  not  fall  without  a 
struggle.  Men  felt  sympathy  and  regard,  as  well  as 
surprise,  when  they  beheld  these  infant  states,  remote, 
unknown,  unaided,  encounter  the  power  of  England, 
and,  in  the  first  considerable  battle,  leave  more  of  their 
enemies  dead  on  the  field,  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  combatants,  than  had  been  recently  known  to  fall 
in  the  wars  of  Europe. 

Information  of  these  events,  circulating  throughout 
the  world,  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  one  who  now 
hears  me.1  He  has  not  forgotten  the  emotion  which 
the  fame  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  the  name  of  Warren, 
excited  in  his  youthful  breast. 

Sir,  we  are  assembled  to  commemorate  the  establish 
ment  of  great  public  principles  of  liberty,  and  to  do 
honor  to  the  distinguished  dead.  The  occasion  is  too 
severe  for  eulogy  of  the  living.  But,  Sir,  your  inter 
esting  relation  to  this  country,  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  which  surround  you  and  surround  us,  call  on 
me  to  express  the  happiness  which  we  derive  from 
your  presence  and  aid  in  this  solemn  commemoration. 

1  Among  the  earliest  of  the  arrangements  for  the  celebration 
of  the  17th  of  June,  1825,  was  the  invitation  to  General  La 
fayette  to  be  present ;  and  he  had  so  timed  his  progress  through 
the  other  States  as  to  return  to  Massachusetts  in  season  for  the 
great  occasion. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         219 

Fortunate,  fortunate  man!  with  what  measure  of 
devotion  will  you  not  thank  God  for  the  circumstances 
of  your  extraordinary  life !  You  are  connected  with 
both  hemispheres  and  with  two  generations.  Heaven 
saw  fit  to  ordain  that  the  electric  spark  of  liberty 
should  be  conducted,  through  you,  from  the  New 
World  to  the  Old ;  and  we,  who  are  now  here  to  per 
form  this  duty  of  patriotism,  have  all  of  us  long  ago 
received  it  in  charge  from  our  fathers  to  cherish  your 
name  and  your  virtues.  You  will  account  it  an  in 
stance  of  your  good  fortune,  Sir,  that  you  crossed  the 
seas  to  visit  us  at  a  time  which  enables  you  to  be  pres 
ent  at  this  solemnity.  You  now  behold  the  field,  the 
renown  of  which  reached  you  in  the  heart  of  France, 
and  caused  a  thrill  in  your  ardent  bosom.  You  see 
the  lines  of  the  little  redoubt  thrown  up  by  the  incred 
ible  diligence  of  Prescott;  defended,  to  the  last  ex 
tremity,  by  his  lion-hearted  valor ;  and  within  which 
the  corner-stone  of  our  monument  has  now  taken  its 
position.  You  see  where  Warren  fell,  and  where 
Parker,  Gardner,  McCleary,  Moore,  and  other  early 
patriots  fell  with  him.  Those  who  survived  that  day, 
and  whose  lives  have  been  prolonged  to  the  present 
hour,  are  now  around  you.  Some  of  them  you  have 
known  in  the  trying  scenes  of  the  war.  Behold !  they 
now  stretch  forth  their  feeble  arms  to  embrace  you. 
Behold!  they  raise  their  trembling  voices  to  invoke 
the  blessing  of  God  on  you  and  yours  forever. 

Sir,  you  have  assisted  us  in  laying  the  foundation 
of  this  structure.  You  have  heard  us  rehearse,  with 
our  feeble  commendation,  the  names  of  departed  patri 
ots.  Monuments  and  eulogy  belong  to  the  dead.  We 
give  then  this  day  to  Warren  and  his  associates.  On 
other  occasions  they  have  been  given  to  your  more 


220  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

immediate  companions  in  arms,  to  Washington,  to 
Greene,  to  Gates,  to  Sullivan,  and  to  Lincoln.  We 
have  become  reluctant  to  grant  these,  our  highest  and 
last  honors,  further.  We  would  gladly  hold  them  yet 
back  from  the  little  remnant  of  that  immortal  band. 
"  Serus  in  codum  redeas." 1  Illustrious  as  are  your 
merits,  yet  far,  O,  very  far  distant  be  the  day,  when 
any  inscription  shall  bear  your  name,  or  any  tongue 
pronounce  its  eulogy ! 

The  leading  reflection  to  which  this  occasion  seems 
to  invite  us,  respects  the  great  changes  which  have 
happened  in  the  fifty  years  since  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill  was  fought.  And  it  peculiarly  marks  the  char 
acter  of  the  present  age,  that,  in  looking  at  these 
changes,  and  in  estimating  their  effect  on  our  condi 
tion,  we  are  obliged  to  consider,  not  what  has  been 
done  in  our  country  only,  but  in  others  also.  In  these 
interesting  times,  while  nations  are  making  separate 
and  individual  advances  in  improvement,  they  make, 
too,  a  common  progress;  like  vessels  on  a  common 
tide,  propelled  by  the  gales  at  different  rates,  accord 
ing  to  their  several  structure  and  management,  but  all 
moved  forward  by  one  mighty  current,  strong  enough 
to  bear  onward  whatever  does  not  sink  beneath  it. 

A  chief  distinction  of  the  present  day  is  a  commun 
ity  of  opinions  and  knowledge  amongst  men  in  differ 
ent  nations,  existing  in  a  degree  heretofore  unknown. 
Knowledge  has,  in  our  time,  triumphed,  and  is  tri 
umphing,  over  distance,  over  difference  of  languages, 
over  diversity  of  habits,  over  prejudice,  and  over  big 
otry.  The  civilized  and  Christian  world  is  fast  learn 
ing  the  great  lesson,  that  difference  of  nation  does  not 
imply  necessary  hostility,  and  that  all  contact  need  not 
1  "Late  may  you  return  to  heaven." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         221 

be  war.  The  whole  world  is  becoming  a  common  field 
for  intellect  to  act  in.  Energy  of  mind,  genius,  power, 
wheresoever  it  exists,  may  speak  out  in  any  tongue, 
and  the  world  will  hear  it.  A  great  chord  of  senti 
ment  and  feeling  runs  through  two  continents,  and 
vibrates  over  both.  Every  breeze  wafts  intelligence 
from  country  to  country,  every  wave  rolls  it ;  all  give 
it  forth,  and  all  in  turn  receive  it.  There  is  a  vast 
commerce  of  ideas ;  there  are  marts  and  exchanges  for 
intellectual  discoveries,  and  a  wonderful  fellowship  of 
those  individual  intelligences  which  make  up  the  mind 
and  opinion  of  the  age.  Mind  is  the  great  lever  of 
all  things  ;  human  thought  is  the  process  by  which 
human  ends  are  ultimately  answered ;  and  the  diffu 
sion  of  knowledge,  so  astonishing  in  the  last  half- 
century,  has  rendered  innumerable  minds,  variously 
gifted  by  nature,  competent  to  be  competitors  or  fellow- 
workers  on  the  theatre  of  intellectual  operation. 

From  these  causes  important  improvements  have 
taken  place  in  the  personal  condition  of  individuals. 
Generally  speaking,  mankind  are  not  only  better  fed 
and  better  clothed,  but  they  are  able  also  to  enjoy 
more  leisure  ;  they  possess  more  refinement  and  more 
self-respect.  A  superior  tone  of  education,  manners, 
and  habits  prevails.  This  remark,  most  true  in  its 
application  to  our  own  country,  is  also  partly  true 
when  applied  elsewhere.  It  is  proved  by  the  vastly 
augmented  consumption  of  those  articles  of  manufac 
ture  and  of  commerce  which  contribute  to  the  comforts 
and  the  decencies  of  life ;  an  augmentation  which  has 
far  outrun  the  progress  of  population.  And  while  the 
unexampled  and  almost  incredible  use  of  machinery 
would  seem  to  supply  the  place  of  labor,  labor  still 
finds  its  occupation  and  its  reward;  so  wisely  has 


222  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

Providence  adjusted  men's  wants  and  desires  to  their 
condition  and  their  capacity. 

Any  adequate  survey,  however,  of  the  progress  made 
during  the  last  half-century  in  the  polite  and  the  me 
chanic  arts,  in  machinery  and  manufactures,  in  com 
merce  and  agriculture,  in  letters  and  in  science,  would 
require  volumes.  I  oust  abstain  wholly  from  these 
subjects,  and  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  contemplation 
of  what  has  been  done  on  the  great  question  of  poli 
tics  and  government.  This  is  the  master  topic  of  the 
age  ;  and  during  the  whole  fifty  years  it  has  intensely 
occupied  the  thoughts  of  men.  The  nature  of  civil 
government,  its  ends  and  uses,  have  been  canvassed 
and  investigated;  ancient  opinions  attacked  and  de 
fended  ;  new  ideas  recommended  and  resisted,  by 
whatever  power  the  mind  of  man  could  bring  to  the 
controversy.  From  the  closet  and  the  public  halls  the 
debate  has  been  transferred  to  the  field  ;  and  the  world 
has  been  shaken  by  wars  of  unexampled  magnitude, 
and  the  greatest  variety  of  fortune.  A  day  of  peace 
has  at  length  succeeded  ;  and  now  that  the  strife  has 
subsided,  and  the  smoke  cleared  away,  we  may  be 
gin  to  see  what  has  actually  been  done,  permanently 
changing  the  state  and  condition  of  human  society. 
And,  without  dwelling  on  particular  circumstances,  it 
is  most  apparent,  that,  from  the  before-mentioned 
causes  of  augmented  knowledge  and  improved  indi 
vidual  condition,  a  real,  substantial,  and  important 
change  has  taken  place,  and  is  taking  place,  highly 
favorable,  on  the  whole,  to  human  liberty  and  human 
happiness. 

The  great  wheel  of  political  revolution  began  to 
move  in  America.  Here  its  rotation  was  guarded, 
regular,  and  safe.  Transferred  to  the  other  continent, 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         223 

from  unfortunate  but  natural  causes,  it  received  an 
irregular  and  violent  impulse ;  it  whirled  along  with 
a  fearful  celerity;  till  at  length,  like  the  chariot- 
wheels  in  the  races  of  antiquity,  it  took  fire  from  the 
rapidity  of  its  own  motion,  and  blazed  onward,  spread 
ing  conflagration  and  terror  around. 

We  learn  from  the  result  of  this  experiment,  how 
fortunate  was  our  own  condition,  and  how  admirably 
the  character  of  our  people  was  calculated  for  setting 
the  great  example  of  popular  governments.  The  pos 
session  of  power  did  not  turn  the  heads  of  the  Amer- 
can  people,  for  they  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  ex 
ercising  a  great  degree  of  self-control.  Although  the 
paramount  authority  of  the  parent  state  existed  over 
them,  yet  a  large  field  of  legislation  had  always  been 
open  to  our  Colonial  assemblies.  They  were  accus 
tomed  to  representative  bodies  and  the  forms  of  free 
government ;  they  understood  the  doctrine  of  the  divi 
sion  of  power  among  different  branches,  and  the  neces 
sity  of  checks  on  each.  The  character  of  our  country 
men,  moreover,  was  sober,  moral,  and  religious ;  and 
•there  was  little  in  the  change  to  shock  their  feelings 
of  justice  and  humanity,  or  even  to  disturb  an  honest 
prejudice.  We  had  no  domestic  throne  to  overturn, 
no  privileged  orders  to  cast  down,  no  violent  changes 
of  property  to  encounter.  In  the  American  Revolu- 
tion,  no  man  sought  or  wished  for  more  than  to  de 
fend  and  enjoy  his  own.  None  hoped  for  plunder  or 
for  spoil.  Rapacity  was  unknown  to  it ;  the  axe  was 
not  among  the  instruments  of  its  accomplishment ;  and 
we  all  know  that  it  could  not  have  lived  a  single  day 
under  any  well-founded  imputation  of  possessing  a 
tendency  adverse  to  the  Christian  religion. 

It  need  not  surprise  us,  that,  under  circumstances 


224  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

less  auspicious,  political  revolutions  elsewhere,  even 
when  well  intended,  have  terminated  differently.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  great  achievement,  it  is  the  masterwork 
of  the  world,  to  establish  governments  entirely  popu 
lar  on  lasting  foundations ;  nor  is  it  easy,  indeed,  to 
introduce  the  popular  principle  at  all  into  govern 
ments  to  which  it  has  been  altogether  a  stranger.  It 
cannot  be  doubted,  however,  that  Europe  has  come 
out  of  the  contest,  in  which  she  has  been  so  long  en 
gaged,  with  greatly  superior  knowledge,  and,  in  many 
respects,  in  a  highly  improved  condition.  Whatever 
benefit  has  been  acquired  is  likely  to  be  retained,  for 
it  consists  mainly  in  the  acquisition  of  more  enlight 
ened  ideas.  And  although  kingdoms  and  provinces 
may  be  wrested  from  the  hands  that  hold  them,  in  the 
same  manner  they  were  obtained ;  although  ordinary 
and  vulgar  power  may,  in  human  affairs,  be  lost  as  it 
has  been  won ;  yet  it  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of  the 
empire  of  knowledge,  that  what  it  gains  it  never  loses. 
On  the  contrary,  it  increases  by  the  multiple  of  its 
own  power ;  all  its  ends  become  means ;  all  its  attain 
ments,  helps  to  new  conquests.  Its  whole  abundant 
harvest  is  but  so  much  seed  wheat,  and  nothing  has 
limited,  and  nothing  can  limit,  the  amount  of  ultimate 
product. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  rapidly  increasing  know 
ledge,  the  people  have  begun,  in  all  forms  of  govern 
ment,  to  think,  and  to  reason,  on  affairs  of  state.  Re 
garding  government  as  an  institution  for  the  public 
good,  they  demand  a  knowledge  of  its  operations,  and 
a  participation  in  its  exercise.  A  call  for  the  repre 
sentative  system,  wherever  it  is  not  enjoyed,  and  where 
there  is  already  intelligence  enough  to  estimate  its 
value,  is  perseveringly  made.  Where  men  may  speak 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.        225 

out,  they  demand  it;  where  the  bayonet  is  at  their 
throats,  they  pray  for  it. 

When  Louis  the  Fourteenth  said, "  I  am  the  State," 
he  expressed  the  essence  of  the  doctrine  of  unlimited 
power.  By  the  rules  of  that  system,  the  people  are 
disconnected  from  the  state  ;  they  are  its  subjects,  it 
is  their  lord.  These  ideas,  founded  in  the  love  of 
power,  and  long  supported  by  the  excess  and  the  abuse 
of  it,  are  yielding,  in  our  age,  to  other  opinions  ;  and 
the  civilized  world  seems  at  last  to  be  proceeding  to 
the  conviction  of  that  fundamental  and  manifest  truth, 
that  the  powers  of  government  are  but  a  trust,  and 
that  they  cannot  be  lawfully  exercised  but  for  the 
good  of  the  community.  As  knowledge  is  more  and 
more  extended,  this  conviction  becomes  more  and 
more  general.  Knowledge,  in  truth,  is  the  great  sun 
in  the  firmament.  Life  and  power  are  scattered  with 
all  its  beams.  The  prayer  of  the  Grecian  champion, 
when  enveloped  in  unnatural  clouds  and  darkness,  is 
the  appropriate  political  supplication  for  the  people  of 
every  country  not  yet  blessed  with  free  institutions  :  — 
"  Dispel  this  cloud,  the  light  of  heaven  restore, 
Give  me  TO  SEE,  —  and  Ajax  asks  no  more." 

We  may  hope  that  the  growing  influence  of  en 
lightened  sentiment  will  promote  the  permanent  peace 
of  the  world.  Wars  to  maintain  family  alliances,  to 
uphold  or  to  cast  down  dynasties,  and  to  regulate  suc 
cessions  to  thrones,  which  have  occupied  so  much 
room  in  the  history  of  modern  times,  if  not  less  likely 
to  happen  at  all,  will  be  less  likely  to  become  general 
and  involve  many  nations,  as  the  great  principle  shall 
be  more  and  more  established,  that  the  interest  of  the 
world  is  peace,  and  its  first  great  statute,  that  every 
nation  possesses  the  power  of  establishing  a  govern- 


226  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

ment  for  itself.  But  public  opinion  has  attained  also 
an  influence  over  governments  which  do  not  admit  the 
popular  principle  into  their  organization.  A  neces 
sary  respect  for  the  judgment  of  the  world  operates, 
in  some  measure,  as  a  control  over  the  most  unlimited 
forms  of  authority.  It  is  owing,  perhaps,  to  this 
truth,  that  the  interesting  struggle  of  the  Greeks  has 
been  suffered  to  go  on  so  long,  without  a  direct  inter 
ference,  either  to  wrest  that  country  from  its  present 
masters,  or  to  execute  the  system  of  pacification  by 
force ;  and,  with  united  strength,  lay  the  neck  of 
Christian  and  civilized  Greek  at  the  foot  of  the  bar 
barian  Turk.  Let  us  thank  God  that  we  live  in  an 
age  when  something  has  influence  besides  the  bayonet, 
and  when  the  sternest  authority  does  not  venture  to 
encounter  the  scorching  power  of  public  reproach. 
Any  attempt  of  the  kind  I  have  mentioned  should  be 
met  by  one  universal  burst  of  indignation  ;  the  air  of 
the  civilized  world  ought  to  be  made  too  warm  to  be 
comfortably  breathed  by  any  one  who  would  hazard  it. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  touching  reflection,  that,  while,  in 
the  fulness  of  our  country's  happiness,  we  rear  this 
monument  to  her  honor,  we  look  for  instruction  in  our 
undertaking  to  a  country  which  is  now  in  fearful  con 
test,  not  for  works  of  art  or  memorials  of  glory,  but 
for  her  own  existence.  Let  her  be  assured,  that  she 
is  not  forgotten  in  the  world ;  that  her  efforts  are  ap 
plauded,  and  that  constant  prayers  ascend  for  her 
success.  And  let  us  cherish  a  confident  hope  for  her 
final  triumph.  If  the  true  spark  of  religious  and  civil 
liberty  be  kindled,  it  will  burn.  Human  agency  can 
not  extinguish  it.  Like  the  earth's  central  fire,  it 
may  be  smothered  for  a  time ;  the  ocean  may  over 
whelm  it :  mountains  may  press  it  down ;  but  its  in- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         227 

herent  and  unconquerable  force  will  heave  both  the 
ocean  and  the  land,  and  at  some  time  or  other,  in  some 
place  or  other,  the  volcano  will  break  out  and  flame 
up  to  heaven. 

Among  the  great  events  of  the  half-century,  we 
must  reckon,  certainly,  the  revolution  of  South  Amer 
ica  ;  and  we  are  not  likely  to  overrate  the  importance 
of  that  revolution,  either  to  the  people  of  the  country 
itself  or  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  late  Spanish 
colonies,  now  independent  states,  under  circumstances 
less  favorable,  doubtless,  than  attended  our  own  revo 
lution,  have  yet  successfully  commenced  their  national 
existence.  They  have  accomplished  the  great  object 
of  establishing  their  independence  ;  they  are  known 
and  acknowledged  in  the  world ;  and  although  in  re 
gard  to  their  systems  of  government,  their  sentiments 
on  religious  toleration,  and  their  provision  for  public 
instruction,  they  may  have  yet  much  to  learn,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  they  have  risen  to  the  condition  of 
settled  and  established  states  more  rapidly  than  could 
have  been  reasonably  anticipated.  They  already  fur 
nish  an  exhilarating  example  of  the  difference  between 
free  governments  and  despotic  misrule.  Their  com 
merce,  at  this  moment,  creates  a  new  activity  in  all 
the  great  marts  of  the  world.  They  show  themselves 
able,  by  an  exchange  of  commodities,  to  bear  a  useful 
part  in  the  intercourse  of  nations. 

A  new  spirit  of  enterprise  and  industry  begins  to 
prevail;  all  the  great  interests  of  society  receive  a 
salutary  impulse ;  and  the  progress  of  information  not 
only  testifies  to  an  improved  condition,  but  itself  con 
stitutes  the  highest  and  most  essential  improvement. 

When  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  fought,  the 
existence  of  South  America  was  scarcely  felt  in  the 


228  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

civilized  world.  The  thirteen  little  colonies  of  North 
America  habitually  called  themselves  the  "continent." 
Borne  down  by  colonial  subjugation,  monopoly,  and 
bigotry,  these  vast  regions  of  the  South  were  hardly 
visible  above  the  horizon.  But  in  our  day  there  has 
been,  as  it  were,  a  new  creation.  The  southern  hemi 
sphere  emerges  from  the  sea.  Its  lofty  mountains  be 
gin  to  lift  themselves  into  the  light  of  heaven;  its 
broad  and  fertile  plains  stretch  out,  in  beauty,  to  the 
eye  of  civilized  man,  and  at  the  mighty  bidding  of  the 
voice  of  political  liberty  the  waters  of  darkness  retire. 

And  now,  let  us  indulge  an  honest  exultation  in  the 
conviction  of  the  benefit  which  the  example  of  our 
country  has  produced,  and  is  likely  to  produce,  on  hu 
man  freedom  and  human  happiness.  Let  us  endeavor 
to  comprehend  in  all  its  magnitude,  and  to  feel  in  all 
its  importance,  the  part  assigned  to  us  in  the  great 
drama  of  human  affairs.  We  are  placed  at  the  head 
of  the  system  of  representative  and  popular  govern 
ments.  Thus  far  our  example  shows  that  such  govern 
ments  are  compatible,  not  only  with  respectability  and 
power,  but  with  repose,  with  peace,  with  security  of 
personal  rights,  with  good  laws,  and  a  just  adminis 
tration. 

We  are  not  propagandists.  Wherever  other  sys 
tems  are  preferred,  either  as  being  thought  better  in 
themselves,  or  as  better  suited  to  existing  conditions, 
we  leave  the  preference  to  be  enjoyed.  Our  history 
hitherto  proves,  however,  that  the  popular  form  is 
practicable,  and  that  with  wisdom  and  knowledge  men 
may  govern  themselves ;  and  the  duty  incumbent  on 
us  is  to  preserve  the  consistency  of  this  cheering  ex 
ample,  and  take  care  that  nothing  may  weaken  its 
authority  with  the  world.  If,  in  our  case,  the  repre- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         229 

sentative  system  ultimately  fail,  popular  governments 
must  be  pronounced  impossible.  No  combination  of 
circumstances  more  favorable  to  the  experiment  can 
ever  be  expected  to  occur.  The  last  hopes  of  man 
kind,  therefore,  rest  with  us ;  and  if  it  should  be  pro 
claimed,  that  our  example  had  become  an  argument 
against  the  experiment,  the  knell  of  popular  liberty 
would  be  sounded  throughout  the  earth. 

These  are  excitements  to  duty ;  but  they  are  not 
suggestions  of  doubt.  Our  history  and  our  condition, 
all  that  is  gone  before  us,  and  all  that  surrounds  us, 
authorize  the  belief,  that  popular  governments,  though 
subject  to  occasional  variations,  in  form  perhaps  not 
always  for  the  better,  may  yet,  in  their  general  char 
acter,  be  as  durable  and  permanent  as  other  systems. 
We  know,  indeed,  that  in  our  country  any  other  is 
impossible.  The  principle  of  free  governments  adheres 
to  the  American  soil.  It  is  bedded  in  it,  immovable 
as  its  mountains. 

And  let  the  sacred  obligations  which  have  devolved 
on  this  generation,  and  on  us,  sink  deep  into  our 
hearts.  Those  who  established  our  liberty  and  our 
government  are  daily  dropping  from  among  us.  The 
great  trust  now  descends  to  new  hands.  Let  us  apply 
ourselves  to  that  which  is  presented  to  us,  as  our  ap 
propriate  object.  We  can  win  no  laurels  in  a  war 
for  independence.  Earlier  and  worthier  hands  have 
gathered  them  all.  Nor  are  there  places  for  us  by  the 
side  of  Solon,  and  Alfred,  and  other  founders  of  states. 
Our  fathers  have  filled  them.  But  there  remains  to 
us  a  great  duty  of  defence  and  preservation  ;  and  there 
is  opened  to  us,  also,  a  noble  pursuit,  to  which  the 
spirit  of  the  times  strongly  invites  us.  Our  proper 
business  is  improvement.  Let  our  age  be  the  age  of 


230  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

improvement.  In  a  day  of  peace,  let  us  advance  the 
arts  of  peace  and  the  works  of  peace.  Let  us  develop 
the  resources  of  our  land,  call  forth  its  powers,  build 
up  its  institutions,  promote  all  its  great  interests,  and 
see  whether  we  also,  in  our  day  and  generation,  may 
not  perform  something  worthy  to  be  remembered. 
Let  us  cultivate  a  true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony. 
In  pursuing  the  great  objects  which  our  condition 
points  out  to  us,  let  us  act  under  a  settled  conviction, 
and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these  twenty-four  States 
are  one  country.  Let  our  conceptions  be  enlarged  to 
the  circle  of  our  duties.  Let  us  extend  our  ideas  over 
the  whole  of  the  vast  field  in  which  we  are  called  to 
act.  Let  our  object  be,  OUR  COUNTRY,  OUR  WHOLE 

COUNTRY,  AND  NOTHING  BUT  OUR  COUNTRY.   And, 

by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that  country  itself  be 
come  a  vast  and  splendid  monument,  not  of  oppression 
and  terror,  but  of  Wisdom,  of  Peace,  and  of  Liberty, 
upon  which  the  world  may  gaze  with  admiration  for 
ever! 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

EDWARD  EVERETT  was  born  at  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April 
11,  1794.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  was,  for  a  short  time,  a 
pupil  of  Daniel  Webster,  who  was  twelve  years  his  senior. 
The  acquaintance  then  begun  between  these  embryo  orators 
ripened  into  a  lasting  friendship. 

His  son,  Dr.  William  Everett,  says  in  a  speech  made  at 
the  Harvard  Commencement  Dinner  of  1891 :  "  My  father's 
connection  with  Harvard  College  began  eighty-seven  years 
ago,  when  he  was  a  child  of  ten.  His  older  brother  was  in 
college,  living  in  the  south  entry  of  Hollis.  The  child 
was  to  begin  the  study  of  Greek  in  the  winter  vacation. 
The  family  were  too  poor  to  afford  two  Greek  grammars ; 
and  little  Edward  had  to  walk  in  the  depth  of  winter  from 
the  corner  of  Essex  and  Washington  streets  in  Boston  over 
the  then  most  lonely  road  to  the  college  and  secure  the 
prized  volume.  From  that  day  his  connection  with  Har 
vard  College  was  scarcely  broken  till  his  death.  He  was 
four  years  an  undergraduate,  .  .  .  two  years  a  tutor,  nine 
years  a  professor,  three  years  president,  and  at  two  differ 
ent  times  an  overseer ;  at  his  death  he  held  an  appointment 
as  college  lecturer." 

The  older  brother  referred  to  above  was  Alexander  Hill 
Everett,  who  was  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  at  the 
age  of  fourteen.  Five  years  later  (in  1811)  Edward  was 
graduated  with  the  highest  honors  at  the  age  of  seventeen ; 
he  was  regarded  in  college  as  a  prodigy  of  youthful  genius. 


232  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

In  1812  he  became  a  tutor  at  Harvard,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  student  of  theology.  On  February  9,  1814,  at  the 
youthful  age  of  nineteen,  he  was  ordained  as  pastor  of  the 
Brattle  Street  Church,  at  Boston,  where  he  immediately 
rose  to  distinction  as  an  eloquent  and  impressive  pulpit 
orator. 

In  March,  1815,  he  accepted  the  Eliot  Professorship  of 
Greek  at  Harvard  College.  In  order  to  become  better  pre 
pared  for  the  duties  of  the  position  he  travelled  and  studied 
in  Europe  until  1819.  While  abroad  he  pursued  an  exten 
sive  range  of  study  at  the  principal  centres  of  learning,  and 
he  took  the  degree  of  Ph.  D.  at  the  University  of  Gottingen. 
His  return  to  Cambridge  was  hailed  with  delight,  and  gave 
a  wonderful  impulse  to  American  scholarship.  In  addition 
to  his  duties  as  professor  he  took  charge  of  the  North 
American  Review,  which  he  conducted  for  five  years. 

In  1824  he  delivered  his  celebrated  Phi  Beta  Kappa  ora 
tion  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  to  an  immense  audience,  including 
General  Lafayette,  in  which  he  portrayed  in  eloquent  and 
patriotic  terms  the  political,  social,  and  literary  future  of 
our  country.  In  the  same  year  he  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  National  House  of  Representatives ;  after  four  re- 
elections  and  a  valuable  service  of  ten  years  as  Congressman 
he  was  chosen  Governor  of  Massachusetts.  He  was  annu 
ally  reelected  Governor  until  1839,  when  he  was  defeated 
by  a  majority  of  one  vote. 

In  1841,  after  nearly  a  year's  sojourn  in  Europe,  he  was 
appointed  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  Great  Britain,  under 
General  Harrison  as  President  and  his  friend  Daniel  Web 
ster  as  Secretary  of  State.  In  1845  he  returned  to  America 
and  became  for  three  years  President  of  Harvard  College. 
In  1850  he  published  his  speeches  and  orations  in  two  vol 
umes,  and  at  about  the  same  time  edited  Daniel  Webster's 
works  in  six  volumes,  for  which  he  prepared  an  elaborate 
memoir.  Upon  the  death  of  Webster  in  1852,  Everett  took 
his  place  as  Secretary  of  State  under  President  Fillmore. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  233 

From  March,  1853,  to  May,  1854,  he  was  in  the  United 
States  Senate. 

On  February  22,  1856,  he  delivered  in  Boston  an  address, 
on  the  Character  of  Washington,  which  he  repeated  in  dif 
ferent  cities  and  towns  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  times. 
He  gave  the  entire  proceeds  of  this  address  toward  the  pur 
chase  of  Mt.  Vernon,  the  home  of  Washington,  for  the  gen 
eral  government.  He  also  gave  for  the  same  purpose 
$10,000  received  for  articles  written  for  the  New  York 
Ledger,  thus  raising  the  entire  amount  contributed  by  him 
to  over  $100,000.  In  1857  and  1858  he  gave  to  different 
charitable  associations  the  proceeds  of  other  addresses, 
amounting  to  nearly  $20,000. 

In  1860  he  was  nominated  for  the  Vice-Presidency  on  the 
ticket  with  John  Bell,  of  Tennessee,  but  was  defeated. 
Though  anxious  for  peace  while  there  was  a  chance  to  avoid 
war,  he  threw  the  whole  weight  of  his  powers  into  a  support 
of  the  Union  after  the  War  of  Secession  began,  and  won 
the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen  by  the  fervent,  patriotic 
eloquence  of  his  speeches  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  the 
North.  His  death  occurred  on  January  15,  1865,  and  re 
sulted  from  a  cold  caught  on  the  evening  of  January  9, 
while  delivering  an  address  in  aid  of  the  suffering  inhabi 
tants  of  Savannah,  which  had  just  been  captured  by  Gen. 
Sherman. 

Edward  Everett's  life  of  seventy-one  years  spanned  a  large 
portion  of  the  youth  of  our  nation.  Born  in  the  administra 
tion  of  Washington,  he  lived  to  see  the  War  of  Secession 
practically  ended  under  Lincoln.  Although  thirty-six  years 
old  before  the  first  locomotive  engine  made  its  appearance 
in  the  United  States,  he  lived  to  see  our  country  covered 
with  a  network  of  over  thirty-five  thousand  miles  of  rail 
ways.  During  his  life  the  population  of  the  United  States 
increased  from  about  four  to  thirty  millions,  and  the  number 
of  States  from  fifteen  to  thirty-six. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  was  fired  with  an  in- 


234  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

tense  feeling  of  patriotism,  or  that  his  noble  utterances  struck 
responsive  chords  in  the  hearts  of  his  listeners.  He  had  a 
theory  that  man  can  do  fairly  well  anything  that  he  honestly 
tries  to  do ;  his  own  practice  was  to  undertake  whatever 
work  lay  before  him,  and  so  extraordinary  was  the  versatility 
of  his  great  mental  power  that  he  did  remarkably  well  what 
ever  he  undertook.  He  achieved  distinction  as  an  orator, 
a  man  of  letters,  a  statesman,  and  a  diplomatist,  but  the 
single  title  which  describes  him  best  is  that  of  orator.  Had 
he  labored  continuously  in  some  chosen  field  he  would  have 
left  behind  him  even  a  greater  monument  of  his  remarkable 
power  than  is  to  be  found  in  his  numerous  speeches  and 
orations. 


FROM  "THE    CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON." 

COMMON  sense  was  eminently  a  characteristic  of 
"Washington ;  so  called,  not  because  it  is  so  very  com 
mon  a  trait  of  character  of  public  men,  but  because  it 
is  the  final  judgment  on  great  practical  questions  to 
which  the  mind  of  the  community  is  pretty  sure  even 
tually  to  arrive.  Few  qualities  of  character  in  those 
who  influence  the  fortunes  of  nations  are  so  conducive 
both  to  stability  and  progress.  But  it  is  a  quality 
which  takes  no  hold  of  the  imagination ;  it  inspires  no 
enthusiasm,  it  wins  no  favor ;  it  is  well  if  it  can  stand 
its  ground  against  the  plausible  absurdities,  the  hol 
low  pretences,  the  stupendous  impostures  of  the  day. 

But,  however  these  unobtrusive  and  austere  virtues 
may  be  overlooked  in  the  popular  estimate,  they  be 
long  unquestionably  to  the  true  type  of  sterling  great 
ness,  reflecting  as  far  as  it  can  be  done  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  humanity  that  deep  repose  and  silent 
equilibrium  of  mental  and  moral  power  which  governs 
the  universe.  To  complain  of  the  character  of  Wash 
ington  that  it  is  destitute  of  brilliant  qualities,  is  to 
complain  of  a  circle  that  it  has  no  salient  points  and 
no  sharp  angles  in  its  circumference  ;  forgetting  that 
it  owes  all  its  wonderful  properties  to  the  unbroken 
curve  of  which  every  point  is  equidistant  from  the 
centre.1  Instead,  therefore,  of  being  a  mark  of  infe- 

1  I  was  not  aware,  when  I  wrote  this  sentence,  that  I  had  ever 
read  Dry  den's  "Heroic  Stanzas  consecrated  to  the  Memory  of 
his  Highness  Oliver,  late  Lord  Protector  of  this  Commonwealth, 


236  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

riority,  this  sublime  adjustment  of  powers  and  virtues 
in  the  character  of  Washington  is  in  reality  its  glory. 
It  is  this  which  chiefly  puts  him  in  harmony  with 
more  than  human  greatness.  The  higher  we  rise  in 
the  scale  of  being,  —  material,  intellectual,  and  moral, 
—  the  more  certainly  we  quit  the  region  of  the  bril 
liant  eccentricities  and  dazzling  contrasts  which  belong 
to  a  vulgar  greatness.  Order  and  proportion  charac 
terize  the  primordial  constitution  of  the  terrestrial  sys 
tem  ;  ineffable  harmony  rules  the  heavens.  All  the 
great  eternal  forces  act  in  solemn  silence.  The  brawl 
ing  torrent  that  dries  up  in  summer  deafens  you  with 
its  roaring  whirlpools  in  March ;  while  the  vast  earth 
on  which  we  dwell,  with  all  its  oceans  and  all  its  con 
tinents  and  its  thousand  millions  of  inhabitants,  re 
volves  unheard  upon  its  soft  axle  at  the  rate  of  a  thou 
sand  miles  an  hour,  and  rushes  noiselessly  on  its  orbit  a 
million  and  a  half  miles  a  day.  Two  storm-clouds  en 
camped  upon  opposite  hills  on  a  sultry  summer's  even 
ing,  at  the  expense  of  no  more  electricity,  according 
to  Mr.  Faraday,  than  is  evolved  in  the  decomposition 
of  a  single  drop  of  water,  will  shake  the  surrounding 
atmosphere  with  their  thunders,  which,  loudly  as  they 
rattle  on  the  spot,  will  yet  not  be  heard  at  the  distance 
of  twenty  miles ;  while  those  tremendous  and  unutter 
able  forces  which  ever  issue  from  the  throne  of  God, 
and  drag  the  chariot- wheels  of  Uranus  and  Neptune 
along  the  uttermost  pathways  of  the  solar  system,  per 
vade  the  illimitable  universe  in  silence. 

written  after  celebrating  his  funeral,"  one  of  which  is  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"  How  shall  I  then  begin  or  where  conclude, 

To  draw  a  fame  so  truly  circular, 
For  in  a  round  what  order  can  be  shewed, 
When  all  the  parts  so  equal  perfect  are  ?  n 


THE  CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON.      237 

This  calm  and  well-balanced  temperament  of  Wash 
ington's  character  is  not  badly  shadowed  forth  in  the 
poet's  description  of  Cicero :  — 

"  This  magistrate  hath  struck  an  awe  into  me, 
And  by  his  sweetness  won  a  more  regard 
Unto  his  place,  than  all  the  boisterous  moods 
That  ignorant  greatness  practiseth  to  fill 
The  large  unfit  authority  it  wears. 
How  easy  is  a  noble  spirit  discerned 
From  harsh  and  sulphurous  matter,  that  flies  out 
In  contumelies,  makes  a  noise,  and  bursts."  l 

And  did  I  say,  my  friends,  that  I  was  unable  to  fur 
nish  an  entirely  satisfactory  answer  to  the  question,  in 
what  the  true  excellence  of  the  character  of  Washing 
ton  consists?  Let  me  recall  the  word  as  unjust  to 
myself  and  unjust  to  you.  The  answer  is  plain  and 
simple  enough  ;  it  is  this,  that  all  the  great  qualities 
of  disposition  and  action,  which  so  eminently  fitted 
him  for  the  service  of  his  fellow-men,  were  founded  on 
the  basis  of  a  pure  Christian  morality,  and  derived 
their  strength  and  energy  from  that  vital  source.  He 
was  great  as  he  was  good ;  he  was  great  because  he 
was  good ;  and  I  believe,  as  I  do  in  my  existence,  that 
it  was  an  important  part  in  the  design  of  Providence 
in  raising  him  up  to  be  the  leader  of  the  Revolution 
ary  struggle,  and  afterwards  the  first  President  of  the 
United  States,  to  rebuke  prosperous  ambition  and  suc 
cessful  intrigue  ;  to  set  before  the  people  of  America, 
in  the  morning  of  their  national  existence,  a  living  ex 
ample  to  prove  that  armies  may  be  best  conducted, 
and  governments  most  ably  and  honorably  adminis 
tered,  by  men  of  sound  moral  principle ;  to  teach  to 
gifted  and  aspiring  individuals,  and  the  parties  they 
lead,  that,  though  a  hundred  crooked  paths  may  con- 
1  Ben  Jonson's  Catiline. 


238  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

duct  to  a  temporary  success,  the  one  plain  and  straight 
path  of  public  and  private  virtue  can  alone  lead  to  a 
pure  and  lasting  fame  and  the  blessings  of  posterity. 

Born  beneath  an  humble  but  virtuous  roof,  brought 
up  at  the  knees  of  a  mother  not  unworthy  to  be  named 
with  the  noblest  matrons  of  Eome  or  Israel,  the  "  good 
boy,"  as  she  delighted  to  call  him,  passed  uncorrupted 
through  the  temptations  of  the  solitary  frontier,  the 
camp,  and  the  gay  world,  and  grew  up  into  the  good 
man.  Engaging  in  early  youth  in  the  service  of  the 
country,  rising  rapidly  to  the  highest  trusts,  office  and 
influence  and  praise  passing  almost  the  bounds  of  hu 
man  desert  did  nothing  to  break  down  the  austere  sim 
plicity  of  his  manners  or  to  shake  the  solid  basis  of  his 
virtues.  Placed  at  the  head  of  the  suffering  and  dis 
contented  armies  of  his  country,  urged  by  the  tempter 
to  change  his  honest  and  involuntary  dictatorship  of 
influence  into  a  usurped  dictatorship  of  power,  reluc 
tantly  consenting  to  one  reelection  to  the  Presidency 
and  positively  rejecting  a  second,  no  suspicion  ever 
crossed  the  mind  of  an  honest  man,  —  let  the  libellers 
say  what  they  would,  for  libellers  I  am  sorry  to  say 
there  were  in  that  day  as  in  this,  —  men  who  pick 
their  daily  dishonorable  bread  out  of  the  characters  of 
men  as  virtuous  as  themselves,  —  and  they  spared  not 
Washington,  —  but  the  suspicion  never  entered  into 
the  mind  of  an  honest  man,  that  his  heart  was  open  to 
the  seductions  of  ambition  or  interest ;  or  that  he  was 
capable  in  the  slightest  degree,  by  word  or  deed,  of 
shaping  his  policy  with  a  view  to  court  popular  favor 
or  serve  a  selfish  end  ;  that  a  wish  or  purpose  ever 
entered  his  mind  inconsistent  with  the  spotless  purity 
of  his  character. 


THE  CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON.      239 

"  No  veil 

He  needed,  virtue  proof,  no  thought  infirm 
Altered  his  cheek." 

And  is  the  judgment  of  mankind  so  depraved,  is  their 
perception  of  moral  worth  so  dull,  that  they  can  with 
hold  their  admiration  from  such  a  character  and  be 
stow  it,  for  instance,  upon  the  hard-hearted,  wondrous 
youth  of  ancient  renown,  who  when  he  had  trampled 
the  effeminate  rabble  of  the  East  under  the  iron  feet 
of  his  Macedonian  Phalanx,  and  that  world  which  he 
wept  to  conquer  was  in  fact  grovelling  at  his  footstool ; 
when  he  might  have  founded  a  dynasty  at  Babylon 
which  would  have  crushed  the  Roman  domination  in 
the  bud,  and  changed  the  history  of  the  world  from 
that  time  to  this,  could  fool  away  the  sceptre  of  uni 
versal  dominion  which  Providence  was  forcing  into 
his  hand  in  one  night's  debauch,  and  quench  power 
and  glory  and  reason  and  life  in  the  poisonous  cup  of 
wine  and  harlotry  ? 

Can  men  coldly  qualify  their  applause  of  the  patriot 
hero  of  the  American  Revolution,  who  never  drew  his 
sword  but  in  a  righteous  defensive  war,  and  magnify 
the  name  of  the  great  Roman  Dictator  who  made  the 
"  bravo' s  trade  "  the  merciless  profession  of  his  life, 
and  trained  his  legions  in  the  havoc  of  unoffending 
foreign  countries  for  the  "  more  than  civil  wars  "  in 
which  he  prostrated  the  liberties  of  his  own  ? 

Can  they  seriously  disparage  our  incorruptible 
Washington,  who  would  not  burden  the  impoverished 
treasury  of  the  Union  by  accepting  even  the  frugal 
pay  of  his  rank  ;  whose  entire  expenditure  charged  to 
the  public  for  the  whole  war  was  less  than  the  cost  of 
the  stationery  of  Congress  for  a  single  year ;  whom  all 
the  gold  of  California  and  Australia  could  not  have 


240  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

bribed  to  a  mean  act,  —  can  they  seriously  disparage 
him  in  comparison  with  such  a  man  as  the  hero  of 
Blenheim,  the  renowned  English  commander,  the  ablest 
general,  the  most  politic  statesman,  the  most  adroit 
negotiator  of  the  day,  —  of  whom  it  has  been  truly 
said  that  he  never  formed  the  plan  of  a  campaign 
which  he  failed  to  execute,  never  besieged  a  city  which 
he  did  not  take,  never  fought  a  battle  which  he  did 
not  gain,  and  who,  alas  !  caused  the  muster-rolls  of  his 
victorious  army  to  be  f raudently  made  out,  and  pock 
eted  the  pay  which  he  drew  in  the  names  of  men  who 
had  fallen  in  his  own  sight  four  years  before. 

There  is  a  splendid  monumental  pile  in  England, 
the  most  magnificent  perhaps  of  her  hundred  palaces, 
founded  in  the  tiiiie  of  Queen  Anne  at  the  public  cost, 
to  perpetuate  the  fame  of  Marlborough.  The  grand 
building,  with  its  vast  wings  and  spacious  courts,  cov 
ers  seven  acres  and  a  half  of  land.  It  is  approached 
on  its  various  sides  by  twelve  gates  or  bridges,  some 
of  them  triumphal  gates,  in  a  circumference  of  thirteen 
miles,  enclosing  the  noble  park  of  twenty-seven  hun 
dred  acres  (Boston  Common  has  forty-three),  in  which 
the  castle  stands,  surrounded  by  the  choicest  beauties 
of  forest  and  garden  and  fountain  and  lawn  and 
stream.  All  that  gold  could  buy,  or  the  bounty  of 
his  own  or  foreign  princes  could  bestow,  or  taste  de 
vise,  or  art  execute,  or  ostentation  could  lavish,  to  per 
fect  and  adorn  the  all  but  regal  structure,  without 
and  within,  is  there.  Its  saloons  and  its  galleries,  its 
library  and  its  museum,  among  the  most  spacious  in 
England  for  a  private  mansion,  are  filled  with  the 
rarities  and  wonders  of  ancient  and  modern  art.  Elo 
quent  inscriptions  from  the  most  gifted  pens  of  the 
age  —  the  English  by  Lord  Bolingbroke,  the  Latin,  I 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON.   241 

believe,  by  Bishop  Hoadley  —  set  forth  on  triumphal 
arches  and  columns  the  exploits  of  him  to  whom  the 
whole  edifice  and  the  domains  which  surround  it  are 
one  gorgeous  monument.  Lest  human  adulation 
should  prove  unequal  to  the  task,  Nature  herself  has 
been  called  in  to  record  his  achievements.  They  have 
been  planted,  rooted  in  the  soil.  Groves  and  coppices, 
curiously  disposed,  represent  the  position,  the  num 
bers,  the  martial  array  of  the  hostile  squadrons  at 
Blenheim.  Thus,  with  each  returning  year,  Spring 
hangs  out  his  triumphant  banners.  May's  ^oliau 
lyre  sings  of  his  victories  through  her  gorgeous  foli 
age  ;  and  the  shrill  trump  of  November  sounds  "  Mai- 
brook  "  through  her  leafless  branches. 

Twice  in  my  life  I  have  visited  the  magnificent  res 
idence,  —  not  as  a  guest ;  once  when  its  stately  porticos 
afforded  a  grateful  shelter  from  the  noonday  sun,  and 
again,  after  thirty  years'  interval,  when  the  light  of 
a  full  harvest  moon  slept  sweetly  on  the  bank  once 
shaded  by  fair  Rosamond's  bower,  —  so  says  tradition, 
—  and  poured  its  streaming  bars  of  silver  through  the 
branches  of  oaks  which  were  growing  before  Columbus 
discovered  America.  But  to  me,  at  noontide  or  in 
the  evening,  the  gorgeous  pile  was  as  dreary  as  death, 
its  luxurious  grounds  as  melancholy  as  a  churchyard. 
It  seemed  to  me,  not  a  splendid  palace,  but  a  dismal 
mausoleum,  in  which  a  great  and  blighted  name  lies 
embalmed  like  some  old  Egyptian  tyrant,  black  and 
ghastly  in  the  asphaltic  contempt  of  ages,  serving  but 
to  rescue  from  an  enviable  oblivion  the  career  and 
character  of  the  magnificent  peculator  and  miser  and 
traitor  to  whom  it  is  dedicated  ;  needy  in  the  midst  of 
his  ill-gotten  millions ;  mean  at  the  head  of  his  victo 
rious  armies :  despicable  under  the  shadow  of  his 


242  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

thick-woven  laurels  ;  and  poor  and  miserable  and  blind 
and  naked  amidst  the  lying  shams  of  his  tinsel  great 
ness.  The  eloquent  inscriptions  in  Latin  and  English 
as  I  strove  to  read  them  seemed  to  fade  from  arch 
and  column,  and  three  dreadful  words  of  palimpsestic 
infamy  came  out  in  their  stead,  like  those  which 
caused  the  knees  of  the  Chaldean  tyrant  to  smite  to 
gether,  as  he  beheld  them  traced  by  no  mortal  fingers 
on  the  vaulted  canopy  which  spread  like  a  sky  over 
his  accursed  revels ;  and  those  dreadful  words  were,  — 

Avarice,  Plunder,  Eternal  /Shame  I 

There  is  a  modest  private  mansion  on  the  bank  of 
the  Potomac,  the  abode  of  George  Washington  and 
Martha  his  beloved,  his  loving,  faithful  wife.  It 
boasts  no  spacious  portal  nor  gorgeous  colonnade, 
nor  massy  elevation,  nor  storied  tower.  The  porter's 
lodge  at  Blenheim  Castle,  nay,  the  marble  dog-ken 
nels,  were  not  built  for  the  entire  cost  of  Mount  Ver- 
non.  No  arch  nor  column,  in  courtly  English  or 
courtlier  Latin,  sets  forth  the  deeds  and  the  worth  of 
the  Father  of  his  Country ;  he  needs  them  not ;  the 
unwritten  benedictions  of  millions  cover  all  the  walls. 
No  gilded  dome  swells  from  the  lowly  roof  to  catch 
the  morning  or  evening  beam ;  but  the  love  and  grati 
tude  of  united  America  settle  upon  it  in  one  eternal 
sunshine.  From  beneath  that  humble  roof  went  forth 
the  intrepid  and  unselfish  warrior,  —  the  magistrate 
who  knew  no  glory  but  his  country's  good  ;  to  that  he 
returned  happiest  when  his  work  was  done.  There 
he  lived  in  noble  simplicity ;  there  he  died  in  glory 
and  peace.  While  it  stands  the  latest  generations  of 
the  grateful  children  of  America  will  make  their  pil 
grimage  to  it  as  to  a  shrine ;  and  when  it  shall  fall,  if 


THE  CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON.      243 

fall  it  must,  the  memory  and  the  name  of  Washington 
shall  shed  an  eternal  glory  on  the  spot. 

Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  the  pure  morality  of  Wash 
ington's  character  in  which  its  peculiar  excellence  re 
sides  ;  and  it  is  this  which  establishes  its  intimate  rela 
tions  with  general  humanity.  On  this  basis  he  ceases 
to  be  the  hero  of  America,  and  becomes  the  hero  of 
mankind.  I  have  seen  it  lately  maintained  by  a  re 
spectable  foreign  writer,  that  he  could  not  have  led 
the  mighty  host  which  Napoleon  marched  into  Russia 
in  1812 ;  not  so  much  one  army  as  thirteen  armies, 
each  led  by  its  veteran  chief,  some  of  them  by  tribu 
tary  kings,  and  all  conducted  to  their  destination 
across  continental  Europe  without  confusion  and 
without  mutual  interference,  by  the  master  mind,  the 
greatest  military  array  the  world  has  ever  seen.  That 
Washington,  who  never  proved  unequal  to  any  task, 
however  novel  or  arduous,  could  not  have  led  that 
gigantic  army  into  Russia  I  am  slow  to  believe.  I 
see  not  why  he  who  did  great  things  with  small  means 
is  to  be  supposed  to  be  incompetent  to  do  great  things 
with  large  means.  That  he  would  not,  if  it  depended 
on  him,  have  plunged  France  and  Europe  into  that 
dreadful  war,  I  readily  grant.  But  allowing  what 
cannot  be  shown,  that  he  was  not  as  a  strategist  equal 
to  the  task  in  question,  I  do  not  know  that  his  mili 
tary  reputation  is  more  impeached  by  this  gratuitous 
assumption,  that  he  could  not  have  got  that  mighty 
host  into  Russia,  than  Napoleon's  by  the  historical 
fact  that  he  could  not  and  did  not  get  it  out  of 
Russia. 

At  any  rate,  whatever  idle  comparisons  between 
Napoleon  and  Washington,  unfavorable  to  the  mili 
tary  genius  of  the  latter,  may  be  instituted,  Washing- 


244  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

ton  himself,  modest  as  he  was,  deriving  conscious 
strength  from  the  pure  patriotism  which  formed  the 
great  motive  of  his  conduct,  did  not  fear  to  place  him 
self  in  a  position  which  he  must  have  thought  would, 
in  all  human  probability,  bring  him  into  collision 
with  the  youthful  conqueror  of  Italy,  fresh  from  the 
triumphs  of  his  first,  and,  all  things  considered,  his 
most  brilliant  campaigns.  The  United  States,  I  need 
not  remind  you,  were  on  the  verge  of  a  war  with 
France  in  1798.  The  command  of  the  armies  of  the 
Union  was  pressed  by  President  Adams  on  Washing 
ton,  and  he  consented  to  take  command  in  the  event 
of  an  invasion.  In  a  very  remarkable  letter  written 
in  July,  1798,  he  mentions  the  practice  "  adopted  by 
the  French  (with  whom  we  are  now  to  contend),  and 
with  great  and  astonishing  success,  to  appoint  generals 
of  juvenile  years  to  command  their  armies."1  He  had 
every  reason  at  that  time  to  suppose,  and  no  doubt  did 
suppose,  that  in  the  event  of  a  French  invasion,  the 
armies  of  France  would  have  been  commanded  by  the 
youngest  and  most  successful  of  those  youthful  gen 
erals. 

A  recent  judicious  French  writer  (M.  Edouard  La- 
boulaye),  though  greatly  admiring  the  character  o£ 
Washington,  denies  him  the  brilliant  military  genius 
of  Julius  Ca3sar.  For  my  own  part,  considering  the 
disparity  of  the  means  at  their  command  respectively 
and  of  their  scale  of  operations,  I  believe  that  after 
times  will,  on  the  score  of  military  capacity,  assign  as 
high  a  place  to  the  patriot  chieftain  who  founded  the 
Republic  of  America,  as  to  the  ambitious  usurper  who 
overturned  the  liberties  of  Home.  Washington  would 
not  most  certainly  have  carried  an  unprovoked  and 
1  Washington's  Works,  vol.  xi.  p.  249. 


THE  CHARACTER    OF  WASHINGTON.      245 

desolating  war  into  the  provinces  of  Gallia,  chopping 
off  the  right  hands  of  whole  populations  guilty  of  no 
crime  but  that  of  defending  their  homes ;  he  would 
not  have  thrown  his  legions  into  Britain  as  Caesar 
did,  though  the  barbarous  natives  had  never  heard  of 
his  name.  Though,  to  meet  the  invaders  of  his  coun 
try,  he  could  push  his  way  across  the  broad  Delaware, 
through  drifting  masses  of  ice  in  a  December  night, 
he  could  not,  I  grant,  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  his 
country,  have  spurred  his  horse  across  the  "  little  Ru 
bicon  "  beneath  the  mild  skies  of  an  Ausonian  winter.1 
It  was  not  talent  which  he  wanted  for  brilliant  mili 
tary  achievement ;  he  wanted  a  willingness  to  shed 
the  blood  of  fellow-men  for  selfish  ends ;  he  wanted 
unchastened  ambition ;  he  wanted  an  ear  deaf  as  the 
adder's  to  the  cry  of  suffering  humanity ;  he  wanted 
a  remorseless  thirst  for  false  glory ;  he  wanted  an  iron 
heart. 

But  it  is  time,  my  friends,  to  draw  these  contem 
plations  to  a  close.  When  the  decease  of  this  illus 
trious  and  beloved  commander-in-chief,  in  1799,  was 
officially  announced  to  the  army  of  the  United  States 
by  General  Hamilton,  who  of  all  his  honored  and 
trusted  associates  stood  highest,  I  think,  in  his  affec- ' 
tions  and  confidence,  it  was  truly  said  by  him  in  his 
general  orders,  that  "the  voice  of  praise  would  in 
vain  endeavor  to  exalt  a  name  unrivalled  in  the  lists 
of  true  glory."  It  is  for  us,  citizens  of  the  country 
which  he  lived  but  to  serve,  children  of  parents  who 
saw  him  face  to  face,  enjoying  ourselves  the  inestima 
ble  blessings  which  he  did  so  much  to  secure  and  per 
petuate,  to  reflect  lustre  upon  his  memory  in  the  only 
way  in  which  it  is  possible  for  us  to  do  so,  by  showing 
1  Ut  ventum  est  parvi  Rubicontis  ad  undam.  —  Lucan,  i.  185. 


246  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

that  his  example  and  his  counsels,  instead  of  losing 
their  influence  by  the  lapse  of  years,  are  possessed  of 
an  ever-during  vitality.  Born  into  the  family  of  na 
tions  in  these  latter  days,  inheriting  from  ancient 
times  and  from  foreign  countries  the  bright  and  in 
structive  example  of  all  their  honored  sons,  it  has  been 
the  privilege  of  America,  in  the  first  generation  of  her 
national  existence,  to  give  back  to  the  world  many 
names  whose  lustre  will  never  fade,  one  of  which  the 
whole  family  of  Christendom  is  willing  to  acknow 
ledge  the  preeminence  ;  a  name  of  which  neither 
Greece  nor  Rome,  nor  republican  Italy,  Switzerland 
nor  Holland,  nor  constitutional  England  can  boast  the 
rival.  "  A  character  of  virtues  so  happily  tempered 
by  one  another  "  (I  use  the  words  of  Charles  James 
Fox),  "  and  so  wholly  unalloyed  with  any  vices  as 
that  of  Washington,  is  hardly  to  be  found  ou  the 
pages  of  history." 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  was  born  in  Portland, 
Maine,  February  27,  1807.  He  was  a  classmate  of  Haw 
thorne  at  Bowdoin  College,  graduating  there  in  the  class  of 
1825.  He  began  the  study  of  law  in  the  office  of  his  father, 
Hon.  Stephen  Longfellow;  but  receiving  shortly  the  ap 
pointment  of  professor  of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin, 
he  devoted  himself  after  that  to  literature,  and  to  teaching 
in  connection  with  literature.  Before  beginning  his  work 
at  Bowdoin  he  increased  his  qualifications  by  travel  and 
study  in  Europe,  where  he  stayed  three  years.  Upon  his 
return  he  gave  his  lectures  on  modern  languages  and  litera 
ture  at  the  college,  and  wrote  occasionally  for  the  North 
American  Review  and  other  periodicals.  The  first  volume 
which  he  published  was  an  Essay  on  the  Moral  and  Devo 
tional  Poetry  of  Spain,  accompanied  by  translations  from 
Spanish  verse.  This  was  issued  in  1833,  but  has  not  been 
kept  in  print  as  a  separate  work.  It  appears  as  a  chapter 
in  Outre-Mer,  a  reflection  of  his  European  life  and  travel, 
the  first  of  his  prose  writings.  In  1835  he  was  invited  to 
succeed  Mr.  George  Ticknor  as  professor  of  modern  lan 
guages  and  literature  at  Harvard  College,  and  again  went 
to  Europe  for  preparatory  study,  giving  especial  attention 
to  Switzerland  and  the  Scandinavian  countries.  He  held 
his  professorship  until  1854,  but  continued  to  live  in  Cam 
bridge  until  his  death,  March  24,  1882,  occupying  a  house 
known  from  a  former  occupant  as  the  Craigie  house,  and 


248      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

also  as  Washington's  headquarters,  that  general  having  so 
used  it  while  organizing  the  army  that  held  Boston  in  siege 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution.  Everett,  Sparks,  and 
Worcester,  the  lexicographer,  at  one  time  or  another  lived 
in  this  house,  and  here  Longfellow  wrote  most  of  his  works. 
In  1839  appeared  Hyperion,  a  Romance,  which,  with 
more  narrative  form  than  Outre-Mer,  like  that  gave  the 
results  of  a  poet's  entrance  into  the  riches  of  the  Old  World 
life.  In  the  same  year  was  published  Voices  of  the  Night,, 
a  little  volume  containing  chiefly  poems  and  translations 
which  had  been  printed  separately  in  periodicals.  The 
Psalm  of  Life,  perhaps  the  best  known  of  Longfellow's 
short  poems,  was  in  this  volume,  and  here  too  were  The 
Beleaguered  City  and  Footsteps  of  Angels.  Ballads  and 
other  Poems  and  Poems  on  Slavery  appeared  in  1842; 
The  Spanish  Student,  a  play  in  three  acts,  in  1843 ;  The 
Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems  in  1846  ;  Evangeline 
in  1847 ;  Kavanagh,  a  Tale,  in  prose,  in  1849.  Besides 
the  various  volumes  comprising  short  poems,  the  list  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  works  includes  The  Golden  Legend,  The  Song 
of  Hiawatha,  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  Tales  of 
a  Wayside  Inn,  The  New  England  Tragedies,  and  a  trans 
lation  of  Dante's  Divina  Commedia.  Mr.  Longfellow's 
literary  life  began  in  his  college  days,  and  he  wrote  poems 
almost  to  the  day  of  his  death.  A  classification  of  his  poems 
and  longer  works  would  be  an  interesting  task,  and  would 
help  to  disclose  the  wide  range  of  his  sympathy  and  taste  ; 
a  collection  of  the  metres  which  he  has  used  would  show 
the  versatility  of  his  art,  and  similar  studies  would  lead  one 
to  discover  the  many  countries  and  ages  to  which  he  went 
for  subjects.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  gather  from  the 
volume  of  Longfellow's  poems  hints  of  personal  experience, 
that  biography  of  the  heart  which  is  of  more  worth  to  us 
than  any  record,  however  full,  of  external  change  and  adven 
ture.  Such  hints  may  be  found,  for  example,  in  the  early 
lines,  To  the  River  Charles,  which  may  be  compared  with 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  249 

his  recent  Three  Friends  of  Mine,  rv.,  v. ;  in  A  Gleam  of 
Sunshine,  To  a  Child,  The  Day  is  Done,  The  Fire  of 
Driftwood,  Resignation,  The  Open  Window,  The  Ladder 
of  St.  Augustine,  My  Lost  Youth,  The  Children's  Hour, 
Weariness,  and  other  poems ;  not  that  we  are  to  take  all 
sentiments  and  statements  made  in  the  first  person  as  the 
poet's,  for  often  the  form  of  the  poem  is  so  far  dramatic 
that  the  poet  is  assuming  a  character  not  necessarily  his  own, 
but  the  recurrence  of  certain  strains,  joined  with  personal 
allusions,  helps  one  to  penetrate  the  slight  veil  with  which 
the  poet,  here  as  elsewhere,  half  conceals  and  half  reveals 
himself.  The  friendly  associations  of  the  poet  may  also  be 
discovered  in  several  poems  directly  addressed  to  persons  or 
distinctively  alluding  to  them,  and  the  reader  will  find  it 
pleasant  to  construct  the  companionship  of  the  poet  out  of 
such  poems  as  The  Herons  of  Elmwood,  To  William  E. 
Channing,  The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz,  To  Charles 
Sumner,  the  Prelude  to  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  Haw 
thorne,  and  other  poems.  An  interesting  study  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  writings  will  be  found  in  a  paper  by  W.  D. 
Howells,  in  the  North  American  Review,  vol.  civ. 


EVANGELINE:  A  TALE  OF  ACADIE. 

HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

[THE  country  now  known  as  Nova  Scotia,  and  called 
formerly  Acadie  by  the  French,  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
French  and  English  by  turns  until  the  year  1713,  when,  by 
the  Peace  of  Utrecht,  it  was  ceded  by  France  to  Great  Brit 
ain,  and  has  ever  since  remained  in  the  possession  of  the 
English.  But  in  1713  the  inhabitants  of  the  peninsula  were 
mostly  French  farmers  and  fishermen,  living  about  Minas 
Basin  and  on  Annapolis  River,  and  the  English  government 
exercised  only  a  nominal  control  over  them.  It  was  not  till 
1749  that  the  English  themselves  began  to  make  settlements 
in  the  country,  and  that  year  they  laid  the  foundations  of 
the  town  of  Halifax.  A  jealousy  soon  sprang  up  between 
the  English  and  French  settlers,  which  was  deepened  by  the 
great  conflict  which  was  impending  between  the  two  mother 
countries  ;  for  the  treaty  of  peace  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  in 
1748,  which  confirmed  the  English  title  to  Nova  Scotia,  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  truce  between  the  two  powers  which 
had  been  struggling  for  ascendency  during  the  beginning 
of  the  century.  The  French  engaged  in  a  long  controversy 
with  the  English  respecting  the  boundaries  of  Acadie,  which 
had  been  defined  by  the  treaties  in  somewhat  general  terms, 
and  intrigues  were  carried  on  with  the  Indians,  who  were 
generally  in  sympathy  with  the  French,  for  the  annoyance 
of  the  English  settlers.  The  Acadians  were  allied  to  the 
French  by  blood  and  by  religion,  but  they  claimed  to  have 
the  rights  of  neutrals,  and  that  these  rights  had  been 


EVANGELINE.  251 

granted  to  them  by  previous  English  officers  of  the  crown. 
The  one  point  of  special  dispute  was  the  oath  of  allegiance 
demanded  of  the  Acadians  by  the  English.  This  they  re 
fused  to  take,  except  in  a  form  modified  to  excuse  them 
from  bearing  arms  against  the  French.  The  demand  was 
repeatedly  made,  and  evaded  with  constant  ingenuity  and 
persistency.  Most  of  the  Acadians  were  probably  simple- 
minded  and  peaceful  people,  who  desired  only  to  live  undis 
turbed  upon  their  farms  ;  but  there  were  some  restless  spir 
its,  especially  among  the  young  men,  who  compromised  the 
reputation  of  the  community,  and  all  were  very  much  under 
the  influence  of  their  priests,  some  of  whom  made  no  secret 
of  their  bitter  hostility  to  the  English,  and  of  their  deter 
mination  to  use  every  means  to  be  rid  of  them. 

As  the  English  interests  grew  and  the  critical  relations 
between  the  two  countries  approached  open  warfare,  the 
question  of  how  to  deal  with  the  Acadian  problem  became 
the  commanding  one  of  the  colony.  There  were  some  who 
coveted  the  rich  farms  of  the  Acadians ;  there  were  some 
who  were  inspired  by  religious  hatred ;  but  the  prevailing 
spirit  was  one  of  fear  for  themselves  from  the  near  presence 
of  a  community  which,  calling  itself  neutral,  might  at  any 
time  offer  a  convenient  ground  for  hostile  attack.  Yet  to 
require  these  people  to  withdraw  to  Canada  or  Louisburg 
would  be  to  strengthen  the  hands  of  the  French,  and  make 
these  neutrals  determined  enemies.  The  colony  finally  re 
solved,  without  consulting  the  home  government,  to  remove 
the  Acadians  to  other  parts  of  North  America,  distributing 
them  through  the  colonies  in  such  a  way  as  to  preclude  any 
concert  amongst  the  scattered  families  by  \sMch  they  should 
return  to  Acadia.  To  do  this  required  quick  and  secret 
preparations.  There  were  at  the  service  of  the  English 
governor  a  number  of  New  England  troops,  brought  thither 
for  the  capture  of  the  forts  lying  in  the  debatable  land  about 
the  head  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy.  These  were  under  the  com 
mand  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  John  Winslow,  of  Massachu- 


252      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

setts,  a  great-grandson  of  Governor  Edward  Winslow,  of 
Plymouth,  and  to  this  gentleman  and  Captain  Alexander 
Murray  was  intrusted  the  task  of  removal.  They  were  in 
structed  to  use  stratagem,  if  possible,  to  bring  together  the 
various  families,  but  to  prevent  any  from  escaping  to  the 
woods.  On  the  2d  of  September,  1755,  Winslow  issued  a 
written  order,  addressed  to  the  inhabitants  of  Grand-Pre', 
Minas,  River  Canard,  etc.,  "  as  well  ancient  as  young  men 
and  lads,"  —  a  proclamation  summoning  all  the  males  to 
attend  him  in  the  church  at  Grand-Pre'  on  the  5th  instant, 
to  hear  a  communication  which  the  governor  had  sent.  As 
there  had  been  negotiations  respecting  the  oath  of  allegiance, 
and  much  discussion  as  to  the  withdrawal  of  the  Acadians 
from  the  country,  though  none  as  to  their  removal  and  dis 
persal,  it  was  understood  that  this  was  an  important  meet 
ing,  and  upon  the  day  named  four  hundred  and  eighteen 
men  and  boys  assembled  in  the  church.  Winslow,  attended 
by  his  officers  and  men,  caused  a  guard  to  be  placed  round 
the  church,  and  then  announced  to  the  people  his  majesty's 
decision  that  they  were  to  be  removed  with  their  families 
out  of  the  country.  The  church  became  at  once  a  guard 
house,  and  all  the  prisoners  were  under  strict  surveillance. 
At  the  same  time  similar  plans  had  been  carried  out  at  Pisi- 
quid  under  Captain  Murray,  and  less  successfully  at  Chig- 
necto.  Meanwhile  there  were  whispers  of  a  rising  among 
the  prisoners,  and  although  the  transports  which  had  been 
ordered  from  Boston  had  not  yet  arrived,  it  was  determined 
to  make  use  of  the  vessels  which  had  conveyed  the  troops, 
and  remove  the  men  to  these  for  safer  keeping.  This  was 
done  on  the  10th  of  September,  and  the  men  remained  on 
the  vessels  in  the  harbor  until  the  arrival  of  the  transports, 
when  these  were  made  use  of,  and  about  three  thousand 
souls  sent  out  of  the  country  to  North  Carolina,  Virginia, 
Maryland,  Pennsylvania,  New  York,  Connecticut,  and  Mas 
sachusetts.  In  the  haste  and  confusion  of  sending  them  off, 
—  a  haste  which  was  increased  by  the  anxiety  of  the  offi« 


EVANGELINE.  253 

cers  to  be  rid  of  the  distasteful  business,  and  a  confusion 
which  was  greater  from  the  difference  of  tongues,  —  many 
families  were  separated,  and  some  at  least  never  came  to 
gether  again. 

The  story  of  Evangeline  is  the  story  of  such  a  separation. 
The  removal  of  the  Acadians  was  a  blot  upon  the  govern 
ment  of  Nova  Scotia  and  upon  that  of  Great  Britain,  which 
never  disowned  the  deed,  although  it  was  probably  done 
without  direct  permission  or  command  from  England.  It 
proved  to  be  unnecessary,  but  it  must  also  be  remembered 
that  to  many  men  at  that  time  the  English  power  seemed 
trembling  before  France,  and  that  the  colony  at  Halifax 
regarded  the  act  as  one  of  self-preservation. 

The  authorities  for  an  historical  inquiry  into  this  subject 
are  best  seen  in  a  volume  published  by  the  government  of 
Nova  Scotia  at  Halifax  in  1869,  entitled  Selections  from 
the  Public  Documents  of  the  Province  of  Nova  Scotia, 
edited  by  Thomas  B.  Akins,  D.  C.  L.,  Commissioner  of 
Public  Records  ;  and  in  a  manuscript  journal  kept  by  Col 
onel  Winslow,  now  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Massachusetts  His 
torical  Society  in  Boston.  At  the  State  House  in  Boston 
are  two  volumes  of  records,  entitled  French  Neutrals,  which 
contain  voluminous  papers  relating  to  the  treatment  of  the 
Acadians  who  were  sent  to  Massachusetts.  Probably  the 
work  used  by  the  poet  in  writing  Evangeline  was  An  His 
torical  and  Statistical  Account  of  Nova  Scotia,  by  Thomas 
C.  Haliburton,  who  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  The  Clock- 
Maker,  or  The  Sayings  and  Doings  of  Samuel  Slick  of 
Slickville,  a  book  which,  written  apparently  to  prick  the 
Nova  Scotians  into  more  enterprise,  was  for  a  long  while  the 
chief  representative  of  Yankee  smartness.  Judge  Halibur- 
ton's  history  was  published  in  1829.  A  later  history,  which 
takes  advantage  more  freely  of  historical  documents,  is  A 
History  of  Nova  Scotia,  or  Acadie,  by  Beamish  Murdock, 
Esq.,  Q.  C.,  Halifax,  1866.  Still  more  recent  is  a  smaller, 
well-written  work,  entitled  The  History  of  Acadiafrom  its 


254      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

First  ^Discovery  to  its  Surrender  to  England  by  the  Treaty 
of  Paris,  by  James  Hannay,  St.  John,  N.  B.,  1879.  W.  J. 
Anderson  published  a  paper  in  the  Transactions  of  the  Lit 
erary  and  Historical  Society  of  Quebec,  New  Series,  part  7, 
1870,  entitled  Evangeline  and  the  Archives  of  Nova  Sco 
tia,  in  which  he  examines  the  poem  by  the  light  of  the  vol 
ume  of  Nova  Scotia  Archives,  edited  by  T.  B.  Akins.  The 
sketches  of  travellers  in  Nova  Scotia,  as  Acadia,  or  a  Month 
among  the  Blue  Noses,  by  F.  S.  Cozzens,  and  Baddeck,  by 
C.  D.  Warner,  give  the  present  appearance  of  the  country 
and  inhabitants. 

The  measure  of  Evangeline  is  what  is  commonly  known 
as  English  dactylic  hexameter.  The  hexameter  is  the  mea 
sure  used  by  Homer  in  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  and  by 
Virgil  in  the  JEneid,  but  the  difference  between  the  Eng 
lish  language  and  the  Latin  or  Greek  is  so  great,  especially 
when  we  consider  that  in  English  poetry  every  word  must 
be  accented  according  to  its  customary  pronounciation, 
while  in  scanning  Greek  and  Latin  verse  accent  follows  the 
quantity  of  the  vowels,  that  in  applying  this  term  of  hexa 
meter  to  Evangeline  it  must  not  be  supposed  by  the  reader 
tii at  he  is  getting  the  effect  of  Greek  hexameters.  It  is  the 
Greek  hexameter  translated  into  English  use,  and  some 
have  maintained  that  the  verse  of  the  Iliad  is  better  repre 
sented  in  the  English  by  the  trochaic  measure  of  fifteen  syl 
lables,  of  which  an  excellent  illustration  is  in  Tennyson's 
Locksley  Hall ;  others  have  compared  the  Greek  hexameter 
to  the  ballad  metre  of  fourteen  syllables,  used  notably  by 
Chapman  in  his  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  The  mea 
sure  adopted  by  Mr.  Longfellow  has  never  become  very 
popular  in  English  poetry,  but  has  repeatedly  been  at 
tempted  by  other  poets.  The  reader  will  find  the  subject 
of  hexameters  discussed  by  Matthew  Arnold  in  his  lectures 
On  Translating  Homer ;  by  James  Spedding  in  English 
Hexameters,  in  his  recent  volume,  Reviews  and  Discus- 
Literary,  Political  and  Historical,  not  relating  to 


EVANGELINE.  255 

Bacon  ;  and  by  John  Stuart  Blackie  in  Remarks  on  Eng 
lish  Hexameters,  contained  in  his  volume  Horce  Helle- 
nicce. 

The  measure  lends  itself  easily  to  the  lingering  melan 
choly  which  marks  the  greater  part  of  the  poem,  and  the 
poet's  fine  sense  of  harmony  between  subject  and  form  is 
rarely  better  shown  than  in  this  poem.  The  fall  of  the 
verse  at  the  end  of  the  line  and  the  sharp  recovery  at  the 
beginning  of  the  next  will  be  snares  to  the  reader,  who 
must  beware  of  a  jerking  style  of  delivery.  The  voice  nat 
urally  seeks  a  rest  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  and  this  rest, 
or  csesural  pause,  should  be  carefully  regarded ;  a  little 
practice  will  enable  one  to  acquire  that  habit  of  reading  the 
hexameter,  which  we  may  liken,  roughly,  to  the  climbing  of 
a  hill,  resting  a  moment  on  the  summit,  and  then  descend 
ing  the  other  side.  The  charm  in  reading  Evangeline 
aloud,  after  a  clear  understanding  of  the  sense,  which  is  the 
essential  in  all  good  reading,  is  found  in  this  gentle  labor  of 
the  former  half  of  the  line,  and  gentle  acceleration  of  the 
latter  half.] 


THIS  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring  pines 
and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct 
in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  pro 
phetic, 

1.  A  primeval  forest  is,  strictly  speaking,  one  which  has  never 
been  disturbed  by  the  axe. 

3.  Druids  were  priests  of  the  Celtic  inhabitants  of  ancient 
Gaul  and  Britain.  The  name  was  probably  of  Celtic  origin,  but 
its  form  may  have  been  determined  by  the  Greek  word  drus,  an 
oak,  since  their  places  of  worship  were  consecrated  groves  of 
oak.  Perhaps  the  choice  of  the  image  was  governed  by  the 
analogy  of  a  religion  and  tribe  that  were  to  disappear  before  a 
stronger  power. 


256      HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their 
bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neigh 
boring  ocean  s 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 
of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval;  but  where  are  the 
hearts  that  beneath  it 

Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland 
the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of  Aca 
dian  farmers,  — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the 
woodlands,  10 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image 
of  heaven? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  for 
ever  departed ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty  blasts 
of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them 
far  o'er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  village 
of  Grand-Pre.  is 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endures, 
and  is  patient, 

4.  A  poetical  description  of  an  ancient  harper  will  be  found 
in  the  Introduction  to  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 

8.  Observe  how  the  tragedy  of  the  story  is  anticipated  by  this 
picture  of  the  startled  roe. 


EVANGELINE.  257 

Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman's 

devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the  pines 

of  the  forest ; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

I. 

IN  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of 

Minas,  20 

Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Vast  meadows  stretched 

to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks 

without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with 

labor  incessant, 

19.  In  the  earliest  records  Acadie  is  called  Cadie  ;  it  after 
wards  was  called  Arcadia,  Accadia,  or  L'Acadie.  The  name  is 
probably  a  French  adaptation  of  a  word  common  among  the 
Micmac  Indians  living  there,  signifying  place  or  region,  and  used 
as  an  affix  to  other  words  as  indicating  the  place  where  various 
things,  as  cranberries,  eels,  seals,  were  found  in  abundance.  The 
French  turned  this  Indian  term  into  Cadie  or  Acadie  ;  the  Eng 
lish  into  Quoddy,  in  which  form  it  remains  when  applied  to  the 
Quoddy  Indians,  to  Quoddy  Head,  the  last  point  of  the  United 
States  next  to  Acadia,  and  in  the  compound  Passamaquoddy,  or 
Pollock-Ground . 

21.  Compare,  for  effect,  the  first  line  of  Goldsmith's  The 
Traveller.  Grand-Prd  will  be  found  on  the  map  as  part  of  the 
township  of  Horton. 

24.  The  people  of  Acadia  are  mainly  the  descendants  of  the 
colonists  who  were  brought  out  to  La  Have  and  Port  Royal  by 
Isaac  de  Razilly  and  Charnisay  between  the  years  1633  and  163& 


258      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides ;  but  at  stated  seasons  the 

flood-gates  25 

Opened  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er 

the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards 

and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unf enced  o'er  the  plain ;  and  away 

to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the 

mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty 

Atlantic  30 

Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their  sta 
tion  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian 

village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak  and 

of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign 

of  the  Henries. 

These  colonists  came  from  Rochelle,  Saintonge,  and  Poitou,  so 
that  they  were  drawn  from  a  very  limited  area  on  the  west  coast 
of  France,  covered  by  the  modern  departments  of  Vende'e  and 
Charente  Infe'rieure.  This  circumstance  had  some  influence  on 
their  mode  of  settling  the  lands  of  Acadia,  for  they  came  from  a 
country  of  marshes,  where  the  sea  was  kept  out  by  artificial 
dikes,  and  they  found  in  Acadia  similar  marshes,  which  they  dealt 
with  in  the  same  way  that  they  had  been  accustomed  to  practise 
in  France.  Hannay's  History  of  Acadia,  pp.  282,  283.  An  excel 
lent  account  of  dikes  and  the  flooding  of  lowlands,  as  practised 
in  Holland,  may  be  found  in  A  Farmer's  Vacation,  by  George  E. 
Waring,  Jr. 

29.  Blomidon  is  a  mountainous  headland  of  red  sandstone,  sur 
mounted  by  a  perpendicular  wall  of  basaltic  trap,  the  whole  about 
four  hundred  feet  in  height,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Basin  of 
Minas. 


EVANGELINE.  259 

Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows ;  and 
gables  projecting  35 

Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded  the 
doorway. 

There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when 
brightly  the  sunset 

Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the 
chimneys, 

Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and  in 
kirtles 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the 
golden  40 

Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles 
within  doors 

Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and 
the  songs  of  the  maidens. 

Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest,  and 
the  children 

Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended  to 
bless  them. 

Reverend  walked  he  among  them ;  and  up  rose  ma 
trons  and  maidens,  45 

Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate 
welcome. 

Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and  se 
renely  the  sun  sank 

36.  The  characteristics  of  a  Normandy  village  may  be  further 
learned  by  reference  to  a  pleasant  little  sketch-book,  published 
a  few  years  since,  called  Normandy  Picturesque,  by  Henry  Black 
burn,  and  to  Through  Normandy,  by  Katharine  S.  Macquoid. 

39.  The  term  kirtle  was  sometimes  applied  to  the  jacket  only, 
sometimes  to  the  train  or  upper  petticoat  attached  to  it.  A  full 
kirtle  was  always  both ;  a  half  kirtle  was  a  term  applied  to 
either.  A  man's  jacket  was  sometimes  called  a  kirtle  ;  here  the 
reference  is  apparently  to  the  full  kirtle  worn  by  women. 


260      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon  from 

the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the 

village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense 

ascending,  so 

Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and 

contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these   simple  Acadian 

farmers,  — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.     Alike  were 

they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice 

of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to  their 

windows ;  w 

But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts 

of  the  owners ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in 

abundance. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer  the 

Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict    Bellefontaine,    the    wealthiest    farmer    of 

Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres ;  and  with  him,  directing 

his  household,  eo 

Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride  of 

the  village. 

49.  Angelus  Domini  is  the  full  name  given  to  the  bell  which,  at 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  called  the  people  to  prayer,  in  com 
memoration  of  the  visit  of  the  angel  of  the  Lord  to  the  Virgin 
Mary.  It  was  introduced  into  France  in  its  modern  form  in  the 
sixteenth  century. 


EVANGELINE.  261 

Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy 

winters ; 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with 

snow-flakes ; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as 

brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 

Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  sum 
mers  ;  es 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the 

thorn  by  the  wayside, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown 

shade  of  her  tresses ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed 

in  the  meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at 

noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah !  fair  in  sooth  was  the 

maiden.  70 

Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell 

from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest  with 

his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings  upon 

them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet  of 

beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap  and  her  kirtle  of  blue,  and 

the  ear-rings  75 

Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as 

an  heirloom, 

Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long  gen 
erations. 

But  a  celestial  brightness  —  a  more  ethereal  beauty  — 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when,  after 

confession, 


262      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  benedic 
tion  upon  her.  so 

When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of 
exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of 

the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the  sea ;  and 

a  shady 

Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  woodbine  wreath 
ing  around  it. 
Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beneath ;  and 

a  footpath  85 

Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared  in  the 

meadow. 
Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by  a 

penthouse, 
Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by  the 

roadside, 
Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed  image  of 

Mary. 
Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well 

with  its  moss-grown  90 

Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a  trough  for 

the  horses. 
Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north,  were 

the  barns  and  the  farm-yard ; 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  antique 

ploughs  and  the  harrows  ; 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep ;  and  there,  in  his 

feathered  seraglio, 

93.  The  accent  is  on  the  first  syllable  of  antique,  where  it  re 
mains  in  the  form  antic,  which  once  had  the  same  general  mean« 
ing. 


EVANGELINE.  263 

Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock,  with 
the  selfsame  95 

Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  penitent 
Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a  vil 
lage.  In  each  one 

Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of  thatch  ;  and  a 
staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous  corn- 
loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and  inno 
cent  inmates  iw 

Murmuring  ever  of  love ;  while  above  in  the  variant 
breezes 

Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang  of 
mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the  farmer 

of  Grand-Pre 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  governed 

his  household. 
Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and  opened 

his  missal,  105 

Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his  deepest 

devotion ; 

99.  Odorous.  The  accent  here,  as  well  as  in  line  403,  is  upon 
the  first  syllable,  where  it  is  commonly  placed  ;  but  Milton,  who 
of  all  poets  had  the  most  refined  ear,  writes 

"  So  from  the  root 

Springs  lighter  the  green  stalk,  from  thence  the  leaves 
More  airy,  last  the  bright  consummate  flower 
Spirits  odorous  breathes." 

Par.  Lost,  Book  V.,  lines  479-482. 

But  he  also  uses  the  more  familiar  accent  in  other  passages, 
as,  "  An  amber  scent  of  ddorous  perfume,"  in  Samson  Agonistet, 
line  720. 


264       HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the  hem 
of  her  garment ! 

Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness  be 
friended, 

And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound  of 
her  footsteps, 

Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the 
knocker  of  iron ;  ut 

Or,  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the  vil 
lage, 

Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance  as  he 
whispered 

Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part  of  the 
music. 

But  among  all  who  came  young  Gabriel  only  was 
welcome ; 

Gabriel    Lajeunesse,   the    son   of   Basil  the    black 
smith,  115 

Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  honored 
of  all  men ; 

For  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages  and 
nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by  the 
people. 

Basil  was   Benedict's  friend.      Their  children  from 
earliest  childhood 

Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister ;  and  Father 
Felician,  120 

Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village,  had  taught 
them  their  letters 

Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the 

church  and  the  plain-song. 
122.  The  plain-song  is  a  monotonie  recitative  of  the  collects. 


EVANGELINE.  265 

But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily  lesson 

completed, 
Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil  the 

blacksmith. 
There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes  to 

behold  him  125 

Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a 

plaything, 
Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ;  while  near  him  the  tire 

of  the  cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a  circle  of 

cinders. 
Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gathering 

darkness 
Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy,  through  every 

cranny  and  crevice,  130 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  laboring 

bellows, 
And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired  in 

the  ashes, 
Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going  into 

the  chapel. 
Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of  the 

eagle, 
Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided  away  o'er  the 

meadow.  135 

Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous  nests 

on  the  rafters, 
Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone,  which 

the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the  sight 

of  its  fledglings ; 

133.  The  French  have  another  saying  similar  to  this,  that  they 
were  guests  going  into  the  wedding. 


266      HENRY  WADSWORTR   LONGFELLOW. 

Lucky  was  lie  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of  the 

swallow ! 
Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no  longer 

were  children.  uo 

He  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like  the  face  of 

the  morning, 
Gladdened    the   earth   with    its  light,   and    ripened 

thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes  of  a 

woman. 
"  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  "  was  she  called ;  for  that 

was  the  sunshine 
Which,  as   the   farmers   believed,  would   load  their 

orchards  with  apples  ;  145 

She  too  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house  delight 

and  abundance, 
Filling  it  full  of  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  children. 

ii. 

Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights  grow 

colder  and  longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion  en 
ters. 

139.  In  Pluquet's  Contes  Populaires  we  are  told  that  if  one  of 
a  swallow's  young  is  blind  the  mother  bird  seeks  on  the  shore  of 
the  ocean  a  little  stone,  with  which  she  restores  its  sight  ;  and 
he  adds,  "  He  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  find  that  stone  in  a 
swallow's  nest  holds  a  wonderful  remedy."  Pluquet's  book 
treats  of  Norman  superstitions  and  popular  traits. 

144.  Pluquet  also  gives  this  proverbial  saying  :  — 

"  Si  le  soleil  rit  le  jour  Sainte-Eulalie, 
II  y  aura  pommes  et  cidre  a  folie." 

(If  the  sun  smiles  on  Saint  Eulalie's  day,  there  will  be  plenty 
of  apples,  and  cider  enough.) 

Saint  Eulalie's  day  is  the  12th  of  February. 


EVANGELINE.  267 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air,  from 
the  ice-bound,  150 

Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical  is 
lands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in  ;  and  wild  with  the  winds 
of  September 

Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with 
the  angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  inclement. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoarded 
their  honey  155 

Till  the  hives  overflowed ;  and  the  Indian  hunters  as 
serted 

Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur  of  the 
foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  followed  that 
beautiful  season, 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer  of 
All-Saints  I 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magical  light ; 
and  the  landscape  iso 

Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of  child 
hood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  restless 
heart  of  the  ocean 

Was  for  a  moment  consoled.  All  sounds  were  in 
harmony  blended. 

Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks  in  the 
farm-yards, 

159.  The  Summer  of  All-Saints  is  our  Indian  Summer,  All- 
Saints  Day  being  November  1st.  The  French  also  give  this  sea 
son  the  name  of  Saint  Martin's  Summer,  Saint  Martin's  Day 
being  November  llth. 


268      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing  of 
pigeons,  iss 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love, 
and  the  great  sun 

Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden  va 
pors  around  him ; 

While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet  and 
yellow, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering  tree 
of  the  forest 

Flashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned  with 
mantles  and  jewels.  no 

Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and  affection 
and  stillness. 

Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and  twi 
light  descending 

Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the 
herds  to  the  homestead. 

Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks 
on  each  other, 

And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  fresh 
ness  of  evening.  175 

Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline's  beautiful 
heifer, 

Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  ribbon  that 
waved  from  her  collar, 

Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human 
affection. 

170.  Herodotus,  in  his  account  of  Xerxes'  expedition  against 
Greece,  tells  of  a  beautiful  plane-tree  which  Xerxes  found,  and 
was  so  enamored  with  that  he  dressed  it  as  one  might  a  woman, 
and  placed  it  under  the  care  of  a  guardsman  (vii.  31).  Another 
writer,  ^Elian,  improving  on  this,  says  he  adorned  it  with  a  neck 
lace  and  bracelets. 


EVANGELINE.  269 

Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating  flocks 
from  the  seaside, 

Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.  Behind  them  fol 
lowed  the  watch-dog,  iso 

Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride  of 
his  instinct, 

Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air,  and 
superbly 

Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the  strag 
glers  ; 

Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept; 
their  protector, 

When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry- 
silence,  the  wolves  howled.  iss 

Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains  from 
the  marshes, 

Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its  odor. 

Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their  manes 
and  their  fetlocks, 

While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and  pon 
derous  saddles, 

Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tassels 
of  crimson,  190 

Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy  with 
blossoms. 

Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded  their 
udders 

Unto  the  milkmaid's  hand ;  whilst  loud  and  in  regular 
cadence 

193.  There  is  a  charming  milkmaid's  song  in  Tennyson's  drama 
of  Queen  Mary,  Act  III.,  Scene  5,  where  the  streaming  of  the 
milk  into  the  sounding  pails  is  caught  in  the  tinkling  k's  of  such 
lines  as 

"  And  you  came  and  kissed  me,  milking  the  cow." 


2TO      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets  de 
scended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard  in 
the  farm-yard,  195 

Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  Anon  they  sank  into 
stillness ; 

Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the  valves  of  the 
barn-doors, 

Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  season  was  silent. 

In-doors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace,  idly 
the  farmer 

Sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  watched  how  the  flames 
and  the  smoke-wreaths  200 

Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a  burning  city.  Be 
hind  him, 

Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall  with  gestures 
fantastic, 

Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away  into 
darkness. 

Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of  his  arm 
chair 

Laughed  in  the  flickering  light,  and  the  pewter  plates 
on  the  dresser  205 

Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields  of  armies 
the  sunshine. 

Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and  carols  of 
Christmas, 

Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his  fathers  before 
him 

Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Burgundian 
vineyards. 

Close  at  her  father's  side  was  the  gentle  Evangeline 
seated,  213 


EVANGELINE.  271 

Spinning  flax  for  the  loom  that  stood  in  the  corner 

behind  her. 
Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  its  diligent 

shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like  the 

drone  of  a  bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man's  song,  and  united  the  fragments 

together. 

As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at  inter 
vals  ceases,  215 
Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the  priest 

at  the  altar, 
So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured  motion 

the  clock  clicked. 

Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard,  and, 

suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  back 

on  its  hinges. 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was  Basil 

the  blacksmith,  220 

And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was 

with  him. 
"  Welcome !  "  the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their  footsteps 

paused  on  the  threshold, 
"  Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend !  Come,  take  thy  place 

on  the  settle 
Close   by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always  empty 

without  thee ; 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the  box  of 

tobacco ;  225 

Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when,  through  the 

curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge,  thy  friendly  and  jovial 

face  gleams 


272      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the  mist 

of  the  marshes." 
Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 

Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fire 
side  :  —  230 
"  Benedict  Belief ontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest  and 

thy  ballad ! 
Ever  in  cheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others  are 

filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  before 

them. 
Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked  up 

a  horseshoe." 
Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evangeline 

brought  him,  235 

And  with  a  coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he 

slowly  continued :  — 
"  Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  English  ships 

at  their  anchors 
Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their  cannon 

pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown ;  but  all  are 

commanded 
On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the   church,  where   his 

Majesty's  mandate  240 

Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.     Alas  !  in  the 

mean  time 

Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the  peo 
ple." 
Then   made   answer  the   farmer :  — "  Perhaps   some 

friendlier  purpose 

239.  The  text  of  Colonel  Winslow's  proclamation  will  be  found 
in  Haliburton,  i.  175. 


EVANGELINE.  273 

Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.  Perhaps  the  har 
vests  in  England 

By  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have  been 
blighted,  245 

And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed  their 
cattle  and  children." 

"Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,"  said  warmly 
the  blacksmith, 

Shaking  his  head  as  in  doubt ;  then,  heaving  a  sigh, 
he  continued :  — 

"  Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour,  nor 
Port  Koyal. 

Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on  its 
outskirts,  250 

Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of  to 
morrow.  ; 

Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  warlike  weapons 
of  all  kinds ; 

Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge  and  the 
scythe  of  the  mower." 

Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer  the  jovial 
farmer :  — 

249.  Louisburg,  on  Cape  Breton,  was  built  by  the  French  as  a 
military  and  naval  station  early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
was  taken  by  an  expedition  from  Massachusetts  under  General 
Pepperell  in  1745.  It  was  restored  by  England  to  France  in  the 
treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  recaptured  by  the  English  in 
1757.  Beau  Se'jour  was  a  French  fort  upon  the  neck  of  land 
connecting  Acadia  with  the  mainland  which  had  just  been  cap 
tured  by  Winslow's  forces.  Port  Royal,  afterwards  called  Anna 
polis  Royal,  at  the  outlet  of  Annapolis  River  into  the  Bay  of 
Fundy,  had  been  disputed  ground,  being  occupied  alternately  by 
French  and  English,  but  in  1710  was  attacked  by  an  expedition 
from  New  England,  and  after  that  held  by  the  English  govern 
ment  and  made  a  fortified  place. 


274      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks 

and  our  cornfields,  255 

Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes  besieged  by  the  ocean, 
Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  enemy's 

cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  shadow 

of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth ;  for  this  is  the  night 

of  the  contract. 
Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.     The  merry  lads  of 

the  village  2eo 

Strongly  have  built  them  and  well ;  and,  breaking  the 

glebe  round  about  them, 
Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for 

a  twelvemonth. 
Rene*  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and 

inkhorn. 
Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of 

our  children  ?  " 
As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in 

her  lover's,  265 

Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father 

had  spoken, 

And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy  notary  en 
tered. 

III. 
Bent  like  a  laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf  of 

the  ocean, 

267.  A  notary  is  an  officer  authorized  to  attest  contracts  or 
writings  of  any  kind.  His  authority  varies  in  different  coun 
tries  ;  in  France  he  is  the  necessary  maker  of  all  contracts  where 
the  subject-matter  exceeds  150  francs,  and  his  instruments, 
which  are  preserved  and  registered  by  himself,  are  the  origi 
nals,  the  parties  preserving  only  copies. 


EVANGELINE.  275 

Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of  the  no 
tary  public  ; 

Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the 
maize,  hung  270 

Over  his  shoulders;  his  forehead  was  high;  and 
glasses  with  horn  bows 

Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wisdom  supernal. 

Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than  a 
hundred 

Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his 
great  watch  tick. 

Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he  lan 
guished  a  captive,  275 

Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend  of 
the  English. 

Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or  sus 
picion, 

Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and  simple,  and 
childlike. 

He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the  chil 
dren  ; 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the  for- 

CSt,  280 

275.  King  George's  War,  which  broke  out  in  1744  in  Cape 
Breton,  in  an  attack  by  the  French  upon  an  English  garrison, 
and  closed  with  the  peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  in  1748  ;  or,  the 
reference  may  possibly  be  to  Queen  Anne's  war,  1702-1713, 
when  the  French  aided  the  Indians  in  their  warfare  with  the  col 
onists. 

280.  The  Loup-garou,  or  were-wolf,  is,  according  to  an  old  su 
perstition  especially  prevalent  in  France,  a  man  with  power  to 
turn  himself  into  a  wolf,  which  he  does  that  he  may  devour  chil 
dren.  In  later  times  the  superstition  passed  into  the  more  inno 
cent  one  of  men  having  a  power  to  charm  wolvea 


276      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water  the 

horses, 
And  of  the  white  Letiche,  the  ghost  of  a  child  who 

unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the  chambers 

of  children ; 
And  how  on  Christmas  eve   the  oxen  talked  in  the 

stable, 
And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider  shut  up  in 

a  nutshell,  235 

And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved  clover 

and  horseshoes, 

With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the  village. 
Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 

Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  extend 
ing  his  right  hand, 
"  Father  Leblanc,"  he  exclaimed,  "  thou  hast  heard 

the  talk  in  the  village,  290 

And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these  ships 

and  their  errand." 
Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer  the  notary 

public,  — 
"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am  never 

the  wiser ; 

282.  Pluquet  relates  this  superstition,  and  conjectures  that  the 
white,  fleet  ermine  gave  rise  to  it. 

284.  A  belief  still  lingers  among  the  peasantry  of  England,  as 
•well  as  on  the  Continent,  that  at  midnight,  on  Christmas  eve,  the 
cattle  in  the  stalls  fall  down  on  their  knees  in  adoration  of  the 
infant  Saviour,  as  the  old  legend  says  was  done  in  the  stable  at 
Bethlehem. 

285.  In  like  manner  a  popular  superstition  prevailed  in  Eng 
land  that  ague  could  be  cured  by  sealing  a  spider  in  a  goose- 
quill  and  hanging  it  about  the  neck. 


EVANGELINE.  277 

And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  no  better  than 
others. 

Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil  inten 
tion  295 

Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace ;  and  why  then 
molest  us  ?  " 

"God's  name  !  "  shouted  the  hasty  and  somewhat  iras 
cible  blacksmith ; 

"  Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and  the  why, 
and  the  wherefore  ? 

Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of  the 
strongest  I " 

But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the  notary 
public,  —  300 

"  Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just ;  and  finally  justice 

Triumphs ;  and  well  I  remember  a  story,  that  often 
consoled  me, 

When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at 
Port  Royal." 

This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and  he  loved  to 
repeat  it 

When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any  injustice  was 
done  them.  305 

"  Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no  longer  re 
member, 

Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue  of  Justice 

Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales  in  its 
left  hand, 

And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that  justice 
presided 

Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and  homes 
of  the  people.  310 

302.  This  is  an  old  Florentine  story  ;  in  an  altered  form  it  is 
the  theme  of  Rossini's  opera  of  La  Gazza  Ladra. 


278      HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales  of 
the  balance, 

Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the  sun 
shine  above  them. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land  were 
corrupted ; 

Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were 
oppressed,  and  the  mighty 

Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.  Then  it  chanced  in  a  noble 
man's  palace  315 

That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  ere  long  a  sus 
picion 

Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the  house 
hold. 

She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the  scaf 
fold, 

Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of 
Justice. 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit  as 
cended,  320 

Lo !  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose ;  and  the  bolts  of  the 
thunder 

Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath  from 
its  left  hand 

Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering  scales  of 
the  balance, 

And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of  a 
magpie, 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls  was 
inwoven."  325 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was  ended, 
the  blacksmith 

Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak,  but  findeth 
no  language ; 


EVANGELINE.  279 

All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his  face, 

as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes  in  the 

winter. 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the 

table,  330 

Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the   pewter   tankard  with 

home-brewed 
Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the 

village  of  Grand-Pre ; 
While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers  and 

inkhorn,     * 
Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age  of  the 

parties, 
Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep  and 

in  cattle.  335 

Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well  were 

completed, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a  sun  on 

the  margin. 
Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw  on  the 

table 

Three  times  the  old  man's  fee  in  solid  pieces  of  sil 
ver; 
And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and 

bridegroom,  340 

Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their 

welfare. 
Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly  bowed  and 

departed, 
While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the  fire* 

side, 


280      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of  its 

corner. 
Soon  was  the  game  begun.     In  friendly  contention 

the  old  men  345 

Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful  manoeuvre, 
Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a  breach  was 

made  in  the  king-row. 
Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  window's 

embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers  and  whispered  together,  beholding  the 

moon  rise 

Over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the  mead 
ows.  350 
Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 
Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the 

angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.     Anon  the  bell  from 

the  belfry 
Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew,  and 

straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed  ;  and  silence  reigned  in 

the  household.  ,  355 

344.  The  word  draughts  is  derived  from  the  circumstance  of 
drawing  the  men  from  one  square  to  another. 

354.  Curfew  is  a  corruption  of  couvre-feu,  or  cover  fire.  In 
the  Middle  Ages,  when  police  patrol  at  night  was  almost  un 
known,  it  was  attempted  to  lessen  the  chances  of  crime  by  mak 
ing  it  an  offence  against  the  laws  to  be  found  in  the  streets  in 
the  night,  and  the  curfew  bell  was  tolled,  at  various  hours,  ac 
cording  to  the  custom  of  the  place,  from  seven  to  nine  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  It  warned  honest  people  to  lock  their  doors,  cover 
their  fires,  and  go  to  bed.  The  custom  still  lingers  in  many 
places,  even  in  America,  of  ringing  a  bell  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening. 


EVANGELINE.  281 

Many  a  farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on  the 
door-step 

Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and  filled  it  with 
gladness. 

Carefully  then  were  covered  the  embers  that  glowed 
on  the  hearth-stone, 

And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of  the 
farmer. 

Soon  with  a  soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evangeline  fol 
lowed.  360 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space  in  the  dark 
ness, 

Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of  the 
maiden. 

Silent  she  passed  through  the  hall,  and  entered  the 
door  of  her  chamber. 

Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of  white, 
and  its  clothes-press 

Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were  care 
fully  folded  365 

Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evangeline 
woven. 

This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to  her 
husband  in  marriage, 

Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her  skill 
as  a  housewife. 

Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mellow  and 
radiant  moonlight 

Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the  room, 
till  the  heart  of  the  maiden  370 

Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous  tides 
of  the  ocean. 

Ah!  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as  she 
stood  with 


•>•:      HEXRY  WADS  WORTH  LOXGFELLOW. 

Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  of  her 

chamber! 
Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees  of  the 

orchard, 
Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  her 

lamp  and  her  shadow.  srs 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a  feeling 

of  sadness 
Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds  in 

the  moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room  for  a 

moment. 
And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she  saw  serenely 

the  moon  pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one  star  follow 

her  footsteps,  sso 

As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael  wandered 

with  Hagar. 

IV. 

Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village 

of  Grand-Pre*. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin  of 

Minas, 
Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were 

riding  at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamorous 

labor  ass 

Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gates 

of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and 

neighboring  hamlets, 
Came   in   their   holiday  dresses  the   blithe  Acadian 

peasants. 


EVANGELINE.  283 

Many  a  glad  good-inorrow  and  jocund  laugh  from  the 
young  folk 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  numer 
ous  meadows,  390 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheels 
in  the  greensward, 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed  on 
the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor  were 
silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people;  and  noisy 
groups  at  the  house-doors 

Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped  to 
gether.  395 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  welcomed  and 
feasted ; 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers 
together, 

All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one  had 
was  another's. 

Yet  under  Benedict's  roof  hospitality  seemed  more 
abundant : 

396.  "  Real  misery  was  wholly  unknown,  and  benevolence 
anticipated  the  demands  of  poverty.  Every  misfortune  was  re 
lieved  as  it  were  before  it  could  be  felt,  without  ostentation  on 
the  one  hand,  and  without  meanness  on  the  other.  It  was,  in 
short,  a  society  of  brethren,  every  individual  of  which  was 
equally  ready  to  give  and  to  receive  what  he  thought  the  com 
mon  right  of  mankind."  —  From  the  Abbe'  Raynal's  account  of 
the  Acadians.  The  Abbd  Guillaume  Thomas  Francis  Raynal 
was  a  French  writer  (1711-1796),  who  published  A  Philosophi 
cal  History  of  the  Settlements  and  Trade  of  the  Europeans  in  the 
East  and  West  Indies,  in  which  he  included  also  some  account  of 
Canada  and  Nova  Scotia.  His  picture  of  life  among  the  Aca 
dians,  somewhat  highly  colored,  is  the  source  from  which  after 
writers  have  drawn  their  knowledge  of  Acadian  manners. 


284      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her 
father ;  m 

Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of  wel 
come  and  gladness 

Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup  as 
she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the 
orchard, 

Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  be 
trothal. 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest  and 
the  notary  seated ;  405 

There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  black 
smith. 

Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press  and 
the  beehives, 

Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of 
hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 

Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played 
on  his  snow-white 

Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind ;  and  the  jolly  face  of 
the  fiddler  «o 

Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown 
from  the  embers. 

Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his 
fiddle, 

Tous  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres,  and  Le  Carillon  de 
Dunkerque, 

413.  Tous  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres  was  a  song  written  by 
Ducauroi,  maUre  de  chapelle  of  Henri  IV.,  the  words  of  which 
are:  — 

Vous  connaissez  Cybele, 
Qui  sut  fixer  le  Temps  ; 
On  la  disait  fort  belle, 
MSme  dans  ses  vieux  ana. 


EVANGELINE.  285 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the 

music. 
Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying 

dances  415 

Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path  to  the 

meadows ; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled 

among  them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Benedict's 

daughter ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of   the 

blacksmith ! 

So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo !  with  a  sum 
mons  sonorous  420 

Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the  mead 
ows  a  drum  beat. 

Thronged  ere  long  was  the  church  with  men.  With 
out,  in  the  churchyard, 

CHORUS. 

Cette  divinit^,  quoique  deja  grand'  mere 
Avait  lea  yeux  doux,  le  teint  frais, 
Avait  infune  certains  attraita 
Fermes  comme  la  Terre. 

Le  Carillon  de  Dunkerque  was  a  popular  song  to  a  tune  played 
OQ  the  Dunkirk  chimes.     The  words  are  :  — 

Imprudent,  tgme'raire 
A  1'instant,  je  1'espere 
Dans  mon  juste  courroux, 
Tu  vas  tomber  sous  mes  coups ! 
— Je  brave  ta  menace. 

—  Etre  moi !  quelle  audace  I 
Avance  done,  poltron ! 

Tu  trembles  ?  non,  non,  non. 

—  J'Stouffe  de  colere  I 

—  Jerisde  tacolere. 

The  music  to  which  the  old  man  sang  these  songs  will  be  found 
in  La  Cle  du  Caveau,  by  Pierre  Capelle,  Nos.  664  and  739. 
Paris  :  A.  Cotelle. 


286      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Waited  the  women.     They  stood  by  the  graves,  and 

hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from 

the  forest. 
Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching 

proudly  among  them  425 

Entered  the  sacred  portalc     With  loud  and  dissonant 

clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling 

and  casement,  — 

Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous  por 
tal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of 

the  soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the 

steps  of  the  altar,  430 

Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal 

commission. 

"  You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  "  by  his  Maj 
esty's  orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been;  but  how  you  have 

answered  his  kindness 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  !    To  my  natural  make  and 

my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know  must 

be  grievous.  435 

Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of  our 

monarch : 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and  cattle 

of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown ;  and  that  you  yourselves 

from  this  province 

432.  Colonel  Winslow  has  preserved  in  his  Diary  the  speech 
which  he  delivered  to  the  assembled  Acadians,  and  it  is  copied 
by  Haliburton  in  his  History  of  Nova  Scotia,  i.  166,  167. 


EVANGELINE.  287 

Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant  you  may 

dwell  there 

Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a  happy  and  peaceable  peo 
ple  !  440 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you,  for  such  is  his  Majesty's 

pleasure ! " 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice  of 

summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the 

hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field,  and  shatters 

his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch 

from  the  house-roofs,  445 

Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their  en 
closures  ; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words  of 

the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder,  and 

then  rose 

Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 
And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to  the 

door-way.  450 

Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape;  and  cries  and  fierce 

imprecations 
Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer ;  and  high  o'er  the 

heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 

As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 
Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ;  and 

wildly  he  shouted,  —  455 

"  Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  !  we  never  have 

sworn  them  allegiance ! 


288      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Death   to   these   foreign   soldiers,  who  seize  on  our 

homes  and  our  harvests  !  " 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand 

of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down  to 

the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  con 
tention,  460 
Lo  I  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Feli- 

cian 
Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps  of 

the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed 

into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng ;  and  thus  he  spake  to  his 

people ; 
Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn ;  in  accents  measured 

and  mournful  465 

Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly  the 

clock  strikes. 
"  What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ?  what  madness 

has  seized  you  ? 
Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored  among  you,  and 

taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another ! 
Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers 

and  privations  ?  470 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and 

forgiveness  ? 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  would 

you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with 

hatred  ? 


EVANGELINE.  289 

Lo!  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  His  cross  is  gaz 
ing  upon  you ! 

See  !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and  holy 
compassion !  475 

Hark !  how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer,  '  O 
Father,  forgive  them  ! ' 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the  wicked 
assail  us, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  '  O  Father,  forgive 
them!'" 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts 
of  his  people 

Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  the  pas 
sionate  outbreak,  «o 

While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  "  O  Father, 
forgive  them  I " 

Then  came  the  evening  service.    The  tapers  gleamed 

from  the  altar ; 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  the 

people  responded, 
Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts ;  and  the 

Ave  Maria 
Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their  souls, 

with  devotion  translated,  *& 

Eose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending  to 

heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings  of 

ill,  and  on  all  sides 
Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house  the  women 

and  children. 
Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with  her 

right  hand 


290      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun, 
that,  descending,  490 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splendor, 
and  roofed  each 

Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  emblazoned 
its  windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white  cloth  on 
the  table ; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey  fragrant 
with  wild  flowers ; 

There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese  fresh 
brought  from  the  dairy ;  495 

And  at  the  head  of  the  board  the  great  arm-chair  of 
the  farmer. 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door,  as  the 
sunset 

Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the  broad  am 
brosial  meadows. 

Ah  !  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow  had  fallen, 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance  celestial 
ascended,  —  soo 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgiveness, 
and  patience ! 

Then,  all  forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the  vil 
lage, 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mournful  hearts  of 
the  women, 

As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps  they 
departed, 

Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary  feet  of 
their  children.  sos 

492.  To  emblazon  is  literally  to  adorn  anything  with  ensigns 
armorial.  It  was  often  the  custom  to  work  these  ensigns  inte 
the  design  of  painted  windows. 


EVANGELINE.  291 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden,  glimmer 
ing  vapors 

Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet  descend 
ing  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus 
sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the  church  Evange- 

line  lingered. 
All  was  silent  within ;  and  in  vain  at  the  door  and  the 

windows  510 

Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  until,  overcome  by 

emotion, 
"  Gabriel ! "  cried  she   aloud  with  tremulous  voice ; 

but  no  answer 
Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the  gloomier 

grave  of  the  living. 
Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless  house 

of  her  father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board  was 

the  supper  untasted.  515 

Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted  with 

phantoms  of  terror. 
Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor  of  her 

chamber. 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  disconsolate 

rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore-tree  by 

the  window. 
Keenly  the  lightning  flashed ;  and  the  voice  of  the 

echoing  thunder  520 

Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed  the 

world  He  created! 


292      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of  the 

justice  of  Heaven ; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully 

slumbered  till  morning. 

V. 

Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ;  and  now  on 

the  fifth  day 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the 

farm-house.  525 

Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful  pro 
cession, 
Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the 

Acadian  women, 
Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to 

the  sea-shore, 
Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their 

dwellings, 
Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and 

the  woodland.  530 

Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged  on 

the  oxen, 
While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  frag- 

ments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hurried ;  and 

there  on  the  sea-beach 
Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the 

peasants. 
All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the 

boats  ply ;  *>& 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from  the 

village. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  his 

setting, 


EVANGELINE.  293 

Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums  from 
the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.  On  a  sud 
den  the  church-doors 

Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching  in 
gloomy  procession  MO 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient,  Acadian 
farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes 
and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary 
and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  de 
scended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives 
and  their  daughters.  545 

Foremost  the  young  men  came ;  and,  raising  together 
their  voices, 

Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the  Catholic 
Missions :  — 

"  Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour !  O  inexhaustible  foun 
tain! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submission 
and  patience ! " 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the  women 
that  stood  by  the  wayside  &M 

Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the  sun 
shine  above  them 

Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of  spirits 
departed. 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited  in 

silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour  of 
affliction, — 


294      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  procession  ap« 
proached  her,  55? 

And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with  emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running  to 
meet  him, 

Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  whispered,  — 

*' Gabriel!  be  of  good  cheer!  for  if  we  love  one 
another 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mischances 
may  happen !  "  560 

Smiling  she  spake  these  words ;  then  suddenly  paused, 
for  her  father 

Saw  she,  slowly  advancing.  Alas !  how  changed  was 
his  aspect ! 

Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  fire  from 
his  eye,  and  his  footstep 

Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  heavy  heart 
in  his  bosom. 

But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  she  clasped  his  neck  and 
embraced  him,  sos 

Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words  of  com 
fort  availed  not. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on  that  mourn 
ful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of 

embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats ;  and  in  the  confusion 
Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers, 

too  late,  saw  their  children  570 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with  wildest 

entreaties. 
So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel  carried, 


EVANGELINE.  295 

While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood  with 

her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down, 

and  the  twilight 
Deepened   and  darkened  around;  and  in  haste  the 

refluent  ocean  575 

Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the 

sand-beach 

Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the  slip 
pery  sea-weed. 
Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and 

the  wagons, 

Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a  battle, 
All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near 

them,  680 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian 

farmers. 
Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellowing 

ocean, 
Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles,  and 

leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of  the 

sailors. 
Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  returned  from 

their  pastures ;  565 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of  milk 

from  their  udders ; 
Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars 

of  the  farm-yard,  — 
Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand 

of  the  milkmaid. 
Silence  reigned  in  the  streets;   from  the  church  no 

Angelus  sounded, 
Kose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights 

from  the  windows.  wo 


296      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires  had 

been  kindled, 
Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from 

wrecks  in  the  tempest. 
Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces  were 

gathered, 
Yoices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the 

crying  of  children. 
Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth  in 

his  parish,  595 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  blessing 

and  cheering, 

Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita's  desolate  sea 
shore. 
Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline  sat 

with  her  father, 
And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the  old 

man, 
Haggard   and   hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either 

thought  or  emotion,  eoo 

E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the  hands  have 

been  taken. 
Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses  to 

cheer  him, 
Vainly  offered  him  food  ;  yet  he  moved  not,  he  looked 

not,  he  spake  not, 
But,  with  a  vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the  flickering 

fire-light. 

"  Benedicite  I "  murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  of  com 
passion.  605 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart  was  full, 

and  his  accents 
Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a  child 

on  a  threshold, 


EVANGELINE.  297 

Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful  pres 
ence  of  sorrow. 

Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the 
maiden, 

Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars  that  above 
them  610 

Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs  and 
sorrows  of  mortals. 

Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wept  together 
in  silence. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in  autumn 

the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o'er  the 

horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon  mountain 

and  meadow,  GIS 

Seizing  the  rocks   and   the  rivers,  and   piling  huge 

shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of 

the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships  that 

lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns   of  shining   smoke   uprose,   and   flashes   of 

flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the 

quivering  hands  of  a  martyr.  eai 

615.  The  Titans  were  giant  deities  in  Greek  mythology  who 
attempted  to  deprive  Saturn  of  the  sovereignty  of  heaven,  and 
were  driven  down  into  Tartarus  by  Jupiter,  the  son  of  Saturn, 
who  hurled  thunderbolts  at  them.  Briareus,  the  hundred- handed 
giant,  was  in  mythology  of  the  same  parentage  as  the  Titans, 
but  was  not  classed  with  them. 


298      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning 
thatch,  and,  uplifting, 

"Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a 
hundred  house-tops 

Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  inter 
mingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the 
shore  and  on  shipboard. 

Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in  their 
anguish,  625 

"  We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  village  of 
Grand-Pre  !  " 

Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farm 
yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned ;  and  anon  the  lowing 
of  cattle 

Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs 
interrupted. 

Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleep 
ing  encampments  eso 

Far  in  the  western  prairies  of  forests  that  skirt  the 
Nebraska, 

When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with  the 
speed  of  the  whirlwind, 

621.    Gleeds.     Hot,  burning  coals  ;  a  Chaucerian  word  :  — 

"And  wafres  piping  hoot  out  of  the  gleede." 

Canterbury  Tales,  1.  3379. 

The  burning  of  the  houses  was  in  accordance  with  the  instruc 
tions  of  the  Governor  to  Colonel  Winslow,  in  case  he  should  fail 
in  collecting  all  the  inhabitants  :  "  You  must  proceed  by  the  most 
vigorous  measures  possible,  not  only  in  compelling  them  to  em 
bark,  but  in  depriving  those  who  shall  escape  of  all  means  of 
shelter  or  support,  by  burning  their  houses  and  by  destroying 
everything  that  may  afford  them  the  means  of  subsistence  in  the 
country." 


EVANGELINE.  299 

Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  the 

river. 
Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as  the 

herds  and  the  horses 
Broke   through   their   folds   and  fences,  and  madly 

rushed  o'er  the  meadows.  ess 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless,  the 
priest  and  the  maiden 

Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and 
widened  before  them ; 

And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their  silent 
companion, 

Lo !  from  his  seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched  abroad 
on  the  seashore 

Motionless  lay  his  form3  from  which  the  soul  had  de 
parted.  640 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and  the 
maiden 

Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud  in  her 
terror. 

Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head  on 
his  bosom. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious 
slumber ; 

And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld  a 
multitude  near  her.  645 

Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully  gaz 
ing  upon  her, 

Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest  com 
passion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the 
landscape, 


300      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Keddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the  faces 

around  her, 
And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  wavering 

senses.  eao 

Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the  peo 
ple,— 
"  Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.     When  a  happier 

season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown  land 

of  our  exile, 
Then  shall  his   sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the 

churchyard." 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.     And  there  in 

haste  by  the  sea-side,  655 

Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral 

torches, 
But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer  of 

Grand-Pre. 
And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service  of 

sorrow, 
Lo !  with  a  mournful  sound  like  the  voice  of  a  vast 

congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with 

the  dirges.  seo 

'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of 

the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hur 
rying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of 

embarking ; 

657.  The  bell  was  tolled  to  mark  the  passage  of  the  soul  into 
the  other  world  ;  the  book  was  the  service  book.  The  phrase 
"  bell,  book,  or  candle  "  was  used  in  referring  to  excommunica^ 


EVANGELINE.  301 

And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of 

the  harbor, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the 

village  in  ruins.  «es 


PART  THE   SECOND. 

I. 

MANY  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of 

Grand-Pre, 

When  on  the  falling  tide  the   freighted   vessels   de 
parted, 
Bearing  a  nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into 

exile, 
Exile   without  an  end,  and   without   an  example  in 

story. 
Far    asunder,    on     separate     coasts,    the     Acadians 

landed ;  e?o 

Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of   snow,  when  the 

wind  from  the  northeast 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks 

of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from 

city  to  city, 
From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern 

savannas,  — 
From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands  where 

the  Father  of  Waters  ers 

Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them  down  to 

the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones  of  the 

mammoth. 
677.  Bones  of  the  mastodon,  or  mammoth,  have  been  found 


302      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Friends  they  sought  and  homes;  and  many,  despairing^ 
heart-broken, 

Asked  of  the  earth  but  a  grave,  and  no  longer  a  friend 
nor  a  fireside. 

Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in  the 
churchyards.  689 

Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who  waited  and 
wandered, 

Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering  all 
things. 

Fair  was  she  and  young;  but,  alas!  before  her  ex 
tended, 

Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life,  with  its 
pathway 

Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed  and 
suffered  before  her,  ess 

Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead  and 
abandoned, 

As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the   Western  desert  is 
marked  by 

Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach  in 
the  sunshine. 

Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect, 
unfinished ; 

As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sun 
shine,  690 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly  de 
scended 

Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by  the 
fever  within  her, 

scattered  all  over  the  territory  of  the  United  States  and  Canada, 
but  the  greatest  number  have  been  collected  in  the  Salt  Licks  of 
Kentucky,  and  in  the  States  of  Ohio,  Mississippi,  Missouri,  and 
Alabama. 


EVANGELINE.  303 

Urged  by  a  restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of 
the  spirit, 

She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search  and  en 
deavor  ;  695 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the 
crosses  and  tombstones, 

Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps 
in  its  bosom 

He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  be 
side  him. 

Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whis 
per,  ^ 

Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  for 
ward.  700 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  be 
loved  and  known  him, 

But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgot 
ten. 

"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  !  "  they  said ;  "  Oh,  yes  !  we  have 
seen  him. 

He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have  gone 
to  the  prairies ; 

Coureurs-des-bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters  and 
trappers."  795 

699.  Observe  the  diminution  in  this  line,  by  which  one  is  led 
to  the  airy  hand  in  the  next. 

705.  The  coureurs-des-bois  formed  a  class  of  men,  very  early  in 
Canadian  history,  produced  by  the  exigencies  of  the  fur-trade. 
They  were  French  by  birth,  but  by  long  affiliation  with  the  In 
dians  and  adoption  of  their  customs  had  become  half-civilized 
vagrants,  whose  chief  vocation  was  conducting  the  canoes  of  the 
traders  along  the  lakes  and  rivers  of  the  interior.  Bushrangers 
is  the  English  equivalent.  They  played  an  important  part  in  the 
Indian  wars,  but  were  nearly  as  lawless  as  the  Indians  them 
selves.  The  reader  will  find  them  frequently  referred  to  in 


304      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  !  "  said  others  ;  "  Oh,  yes  I  we 

have  seen  him. 

He  is  a  voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana." 
Then  would  they  say,  "  Dear  child !  why  dream  and 

wait  for  him  longer  ? 

Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  ?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as 

loyal  ?  710 

Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son,  who  has 

loved  thee 
Many  a  tedious  year ;  come,  give  him  thy  hand  and  be 

happy ! 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Catherine's 

tresses." 
Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly, 

"  I  cannot ! 
Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows  my  hand, 

and  not  elsewhere.  715 

For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and 

illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden  in 

darkness." 

Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father  confessor, 
Said,  with  a  smile,  "O  daughter!  thy  God  thus 

speaketh  within  theel 
Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,   affection  never  was 

wasted ;  720 

Parkman's  histories,  especially  in  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac, 
The  Discovery  of  the  Great  West,  and  Frontenac  and  New  France 
under  Louis  XI V. 

707.  A  voyageur  is  a  river  boatman,  and  is  a  term  applied 
usually  to  Canadians. 

713.  St.  Catherine  of  Alexandria  and  St.  Catherine  of  Siena 
were  both  celebrated  for  their  vows  of  virginity.  Hence  the  say 
ing  to  braid  St.  Catherine's  tresses,  of  one  devoted  to  a  single  life. 


EVANGELINE.  305 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  re 
turning 

Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full 
of  refreshment ; 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to 
the  fountain. 

Patience  ;  accomplish  thy  labor  ;  accomplish  thy  work 
of  affection ! 

Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance 
is  godlike.  725 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the  heart 
is  made  godlike, 

Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more 
worthy  of  heaven !  " 

Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evangeline  labored 
and  waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the 
ocean, 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a  voice  that 
whispered,  "  Despair  not ! "  730 

Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheer 
less  discomfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of 
existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O  Muse !  to  follow  the  wanderer's  foot 
steps  ;  — 

Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changeful  year 
of  existence ; 

But  as  a  traveller  follows  a  streamlet's  course  through 
the  valley :  735 

Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the  gleam  of 
its  water 

Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  intervals 
only; 


306      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan  glooms 

that  conceal  it, 
Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  continuous 

murmur  ; 
Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  a  spot  where  it  reaches 

an  outlet.  740 

n. 

It  was  the  month  of  May.    Far  down  the  Beautiful 

Kiver, 
Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the  Wa- 

bash, 
Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift  Mis 

sissippi, 
Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by  Acadian 

boatmen. 
It  was  a  band  of  exiles  :  a  raft,  as  it  were,  from  the 

shipwrecked  745 

Nation,  scattered  along   the   coast,  now  floating  to 

gether, 
Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and  a  com 

mon  misfortune  ; 
Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided  by  hope 

or  by  hearsay, 
Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the  few- 

acred  farmers 
On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair  Ope- 

750 


741.  The  Iroquois  gave  to  this  river  the  name  of  Ohio,  or  the 
Beautiful  River,  and  La  Salle,  who  was  the  first  European  to 
discover  it,  preserved  the  name,  so  that  it  was  transferred  to 
maps  very  early. 

750.  Between  the  1st  of  January  and  the  13th  of  May,  1765, 
about  six  hundred  and  fifty  Acadians  had  arrived  at  New  Or- 


EVANGELINE.  307 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide,  the 
Father  Felician. 

Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wilderness 
sombre  with  forests, 

Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent  river ; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on 
its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands, 
where  plumelike  755 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept 
with  the  current, 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sand 
bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  of 
their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  pel 
icans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of  the 
river,  (  7eo 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  gar 
dens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro  cabins  and 
dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  per 
petual  summer, 

leans.  Louisiana  had  been  ceded  by  France  to  Spain  in  1762, 
but  did  not  really  pass  under  the  control  of  the  Spanish  until 
1769.  The  existence  of  a  French  population  attracted  the  wan 
dering  Acadians,  and  they  were  sent  by  the  authorities  to  form 
settlements  in  Attakapas  and  Opelousas.  They  afterward  formed 
settlements  on  both  sides  of  the  Mississippi  from  the  German 
Coast  up  to  Baton  Rouge,  and  even  as  high  as  Pointe  Coupe'e. 
Hence  the  name  of  Acadian  Coast,  which  a  portion  of  the  banks 
of  the  river  still  bears.  See  Gayarre"s  History  of  Louisiana : 
The  French  Dominion,  vol.  ii. 


308      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of 
orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  east 
ward.  765 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course ;  and,  entering 
the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious 
waters, 

Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every 
direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs 
of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid 
air  770 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient 
cathedrals. 

Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by 
the  herons 

Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning  at 
sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac 
laughter. 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed 
on  the  water,  775 

Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sustain 
ing  the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through 
chinks  in  a  ruin. 

Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were  all  things 
around  them  ; 

And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling  of  wonder 
and  sadness,  — 

Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that  cannot  be 
compassed.  iso 


EVANGELINE.  309 

As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  turf  of  the 

prairies, 
Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking 

mimosa, 
So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of 

evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom 

has  attained  it. 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a  vision,  that 

faintly  735 

Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  on  through 

the  moonlight. 
It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the 

shape  of  a  phantom. 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wandered 

before  her, 
And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him  nearer 

and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one 

of  the  oarsmen,  790 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  peradven- 

ture 
Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a 

blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy 

the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence  and  giving  tongues  to  the 

forest. 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred 

to  the  music.  795 

Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 
Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  reverberant 

branches; 


310       HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

But  not  a  voice  replied ;   no  answer  came  from  the 

darkness ; 
And  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of  pain 

was  the  silence. 
Then    Evangeline   slept  ;   but    the   boatmen    rowed 

through  the  midnight,  soo 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian  boat- 
songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers, 
While  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysterious 

sounds  of  the  desert, 
Far  off,  —  indistinct,  —  as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the 

forest, 
Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar  of 

the  grim  alligator.  sos 

Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged  from  the 
shades  ;  and  before  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undula 
tions 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty, 
the  lotus 

Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boat 
men.  810 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magno 
lia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon ;  and  numberless  sylvan 
islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming 
hedges  of  roses, 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to 
slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were  sus 
pended.  815 


EVANGELINE.  311 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew  by 
the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored ;  and  scattered  about  on 
the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travellers 
slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a 
cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower  and 
the  grapevine  820 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of 
Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending,  de 
scending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from  blos 
som  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slumbered 
beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an 
opening  heaven  825 

Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions 
celestial. 

Nearer,  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er  the 

water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters 

and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the 

bison  and  beaver.  sao 

At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance  thoughtful 

and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow,  and 

a  sadness 


312      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly 
written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and 
restless, 

Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and  of 
sorrow.  sas 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the 
island, 

But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen  of  pal 
mettos  ; 

So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  concealed 
in  the  willows ; 

All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen, 
were  the  sleepers ; 

Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumber 
ing  maiden.  340 

Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud  on 
the  prairie. 

After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died 
in  the  distance, 

As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and  the 
maiden 

Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "O  Father 
Felician ! 

Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel 
wanders.  845 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  ? 

Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my 
spirit  ?  " 

Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  "  Alas  for  my  credu 
lous  fancy ! 

Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no 
meaning." 

But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  answered,  —  M« 


EVANGELINE.  313 

"  Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle ;  nor  are  they  to 

me  without  meaning, 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;  and  the  word  that  floats  on 

the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the  anchor 

is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the  world 

calls  illusions. 
Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee ;  for  not  far  away  to  the 

southward,  sss 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St.  Maur 

and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again 

to  her  bridegroom, 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his 

sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests  of 

fruit-trees ; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of 

heavens  .  seo 

Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls  of 

the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of 

Louisiana.'* 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  continued 
their  journey. 

Softly  the  evening  came.  The  sun  from  the  western 
horizon 

Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o'er  the 
landscape ;  ees 

Twinkling  vapors  arose ;  and  sky  and  water  and  forest 

Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and  min 
gled  together. 


314      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with  edges  of 
silver, 

Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the  mo 
tionless  water. 

Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible  sweet 
ness.  870 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains  of 
feeling 

Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  waters 
around  her. 

Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird, 
wildest  of  singers, 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the 
water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious 

music,  875 

That  the  whole   air  and   the  woods  and  the  waves 

seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad ;  then  soaring 

to  madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied 

Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lam 
entation  ; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad 

in  derision,  sso 

As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the 

tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on 

the  branches. 

878.  The  Bacchantes  were  worshippers  of  the  god  Bacchus, 
who  in  Greek  mythology  presided  over  the  vine  and  its  fruits. 
They  gave  themselves  up  to  all  manner  of  excess,  and  theii 
Bongs  and  dances  were  to  wild,  intoxicating  measures. 


EVANGELINE.  315 

With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed 
with  emotion, 

Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through 
the  green  Opelousas, 

And,  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of  the 
woodland,  sss 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neighbor 
ing  dwelling ;  — 

Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  lowing 
of  cattle. 

ra. 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by  oaks 
from  whose  branches 

Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistletoe 
flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at 
Yule-tide,  890 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman. 
A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant  blos 
soms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house  itself  was 
of  timbers 

Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  to 
gether. 

Large  and  T.ow  was  the  roof ;  and  on  slender  columns 
supported,  895 

Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and  spacious 
veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended 
around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the 
garden, 


316      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  perpetual  sym 
bol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentions  of 
rivals.  900 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of  shadow 
and  sunshine 

Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees ;  but  the  house  itself 
was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly  ex 
panding 

Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke 
rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate,  ran  a 
pathway  905 

Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the 
limitless  prairie, 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descend 
ing. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy 
canvas 

Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless  calm 
in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of 
grapevines.  910 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf  of 

the  prairie, 
Mounted  upon   his   horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and 

stirrups, 
Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet   of 

deerskin. 
Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under  the 

Spanish  sombrero 
Grazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look  of 

its  master.  9is 


EVANGELINE.  317 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine  that 
were  grazing 

Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  vapory 
freshness 

That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself  over  the 
landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and  ex 
panding 

Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast,  that  re 
sounded  920 

Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp  air 
of  the  evening. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of  the 
cattle 

Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of 
ocean. 

Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed 
o'er  the  prairie, 

And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a  shade  in  the 
distance.  925 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house,  through 
the  gate  of  the  garden 

Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  ad 
vancing  to  meet  him. 

Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in  amaze 
ment,  and  forward 

Pushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of  won 
der ; 

"When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized  Basil  the 
blacksmith.  930 

Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to  the 
garden. 

There  in  an  arbor  of  roses  with  endless  question  and 
answer 


318      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their 

friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting  silent  and 

thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel   came   not;    and   now  dark 

doubts  and  misgivings  935 

Stole  o'er  the  maiden's  heart ;  and  Basil,  somewhat 

embarrassed, 
Broke  the   silence   and   said,  "If  you  came  by  the 

Atchafalaya, 
How   have   you   nowhere   encountered   my  Gabriel's 

boat  on  the  bayous  ?  " 
Over  Evangeline's  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a  shade 

passed. 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a  trem 
ulous  accent,  940 
"  Gone  ?  is  Gabriel  gone  ?  "  and,  concealing  her  face 

on  his  shoulder, 
All  her  o'erburdeiied  heart  gave  way,  and  she  wept 

and  lamented. 
Then  the  good  Basil  said,  —  and  his  voice  grew  blithe 

as  he  said  it,  — 
"  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child ;  it  is  only  to-day  he 

departed. 
Foolish  boy !  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds  and 

my  horses.  945 

Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled,  his 

spirit 

Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet  exis 
tence. 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful  ever, 
Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and  his  troubles, 
He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men  and  to 

maidens,  950 


EVANGELINE.  319 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  bethought  me,  and 

sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with  the 

Spaniards. 
Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the  Ozark 

Mountains, 
Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping  the 

beaver. 

Therefore  be  of  good  cheer ;  we  will  follow  the  fugi 
tive  lover ;  955 
He  is   not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the 

streams  are  against  him. 
Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red  dew  of 

the  morning, 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  to  his 

prison." 

Then   glad  voices  were   heard,  and  up   from   the 

banks  of  the  river, 
Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came  Michael  the 

fiddler.  960 

Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived,  like  a  god  on 

Olympus,  * 

Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to  mor 
tals. 
Far  renowned  was   he   for  his  silver  locks  and  his 

fiddle. 
"  Long  live  Michael,"  they  cried,  "  our  brave  Acadian 

minstrel !  " 
As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  procession ;  and 

straightway  965 

Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greeting 

the  old  man 
Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,  while  Basil, 

enraptured. 


320      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and  gos 
sips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers  and 
daughters. 

Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the  ci-devant 
blacksmith,  970 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal 
demeanor ; 

Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil  and 
the  climate, 

And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were  his 
who  would  take  them ; 

Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too,  would  go 
and  do  likewise. 

Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the  breezy 
veranda,  975 

Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  already  the  sup 
per  of  Basil 

Waited  his  late  return ;  and  they  rested  and  feasted 
together. 

Over  the    joyous   feast  the   sudden  darkness   de 
scended. 
All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  landscape 

with  silver, 
Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars ;  but 

within  doors,  980 

Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in  the 

glimmering  lamplight. 
Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of  the  table, 

the  herdsman 
Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in  endless 

profusion. 
Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Natchi- 

toches  tobacco, 


EVANGELINE.  321 

Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and  smiled 

as  they  listened :  —  935 

"  Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long  have  been 

friendless  and  homeless, 

Welcome  once  more  to  a  home,  that  is  better  per 
chance  than  the  old  one ! 
Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like  the 

rivers ; 
Here   no   stony  ground   provokes  the  wrath  of  the 

farmer ; 
Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil,  as  a 

keel  through  the  water.  990 

All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blossom ; 

and  grass  grows 

More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole  Canadian  summer. 
Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and  unclaimed 

in  the  prairies ; 
Here,  too,  lands   may   be   had   for   the   asking,  and 

forests  of  timber 
With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed 

into  houses.  995 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are  yellow 

with  harvests, 
No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away  from 

your  homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing  your 

farms  and  your  cattle." 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrathful  cloud  from 

his  nostrils, 
While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thundering  down 

on  the  table,  1000 

So  that  the  guests  all  started ;  and  Father  Felician, 

astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  half-way  to 

his  nostrils. 


322      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were 
milder  and  gayer :  — 

"  Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware  of  the 
fever ! 

For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  climate,  iocs 

Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round  one's  neck  in  a 
nutshell!" 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and  foot 
steps  approaching 

Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of  the  breezy 
veranda. 

It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian 
planters, 

Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil  the 
herdsman.  1010 

Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and 
neighbors : 

Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms;  and  they  who 
before  were  as  strangers, 

Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends  to  each 
other, 

Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common  country 
together. 

But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a  strain  of  music,  pro 
ceeding  1015 

From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's  melodious 
fiddle, 

Broke  up  all  further  speech.  Away,  like  children 
delighted, 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves  to 
the  maddening 

Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed  to 
the  music, 

Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of  flutter 
ing  garments.  1020 


EVANGELINE.  323 

Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the  priest 

and  the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing   together   of   past   and   present   and 

future ; 
While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for  within 

her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the 

music 

Heard  she  the  sound  of   the   sea,   and   an   irrepres 
sible  sadness  1025 
Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth  into 

the  garden. 
Beautiful  was  the  night.     Behind  the  black  wall  of 

the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon.     On 

the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremulous 

gleam  of  the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened  and 

devious  spirit.  1030 

Nearer  and  round   about   her,  the   manifold   flowers 

of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their  prayers 

and  confessions 
Unto   the   night,   as   it   went   its  way,  like  a  silent 

Carthusian. 

1033.  The  Carthusians  are  a  monastic  order  founded  in  the 
twelfth  century,  perhaps  the  most  severe  in  its  rules  of  all  reli 
gious  societies.  Almost  perpetual  silence  is  one  of  the  vows;  the 
monks  can  talk  together  but  once  a  week  ;  the  labor  required  of 
them  is  unremitting  and  the  discipline  exceedingly  rigid.  The 
first  monastery  was  established  at  Chartreux  near  Grenoble  in 
France,  and  the  Latinized  form  of  the  name  has  given  us  the 
word  Carthusian. 


324      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with 
shadows  and  night-dews, 

Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.  The  calm  and  the 
magical  moonlight  1035 

Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  long 
ings, 

As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the  shade 
of  the  oak-trees, 

Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measure 
less  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 

Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infinite 
numbers.  IMO 

Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the 
heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel 
and  worship, 

Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of 
that  temple, 

As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 
"  Upharsin." 

And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and 
the  fire-flies,  IMS 

Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  "  O  Gabriel !  O  my 
beloved  ! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  behold 
thee  ? 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not 
reach  me  ? 

Ah !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the 
prairie ! 

Ah !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  wood 
lands  around  me !  IOM 

Ah !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labor, 


EVANGELINE.  325 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me  in 

thy  slumbers ! 
When  shall  these  eyes  behpld,  these  arms  be  folded 

about  thee  ?  " 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whippoor- 

will  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods ;  and  anon,  through  the 

neighboring  thickets,  1055 

Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into 

silence. 

"  Patience !  "  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  cav 
erns  of  darkness ; 
And,  from   the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  responded, 

"  To-morrow !  " 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day ;  and  all  the  flowers 
of  the  garden 

Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and  anointed 
his  tresses  ioeo 

"With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their  vases 
of  crystal. 

*'  Farewell !"  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the 
shadowy  threshold ; 

4  See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his 
fasting  and  famine, 

And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the 
bridegroom  was  coming." 

"Farewell!  "  answered  the  maiden,  and,  smiling,  with 
Basil  descended  1065 

Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boatmen  already 
were  waiting. 

Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning,  and  sun 
shine,  and  gladness, 

Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was  speed 
ing  before  them, 


326      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf  over  the 

desert. 

Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that  suc 
ceeded,  1070 
Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest  or 

river, 
Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him  ;  but  vague 

and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a  wild  and 

desolate  country ; 

Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of  Adayes, 
Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from  the 

garrulous  landlord  1075 

That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides  and 

companions, 
Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the   road  of  the 

prairies. 

rvr. 

Far  in  the  "West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where  the 

mountains 

Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and  lumi 
nous  summits. 
Down   from   their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the 

gorge,  like  a  gateway,  ioso 

Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emigrant's 

wagon, 
Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway  and 

Owyhee. 
Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind-river 

Mountains, 
Through  the  Sweet- water  Valley  precipitate  leaps  the 

Nebraska ; 
And  to  the   south,  from   Fontaine-qui-bout  and  the 

Spanish  sierras,  IOSB 


EVANGELINE.  327 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the  wind 
of  the  desert, 

Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound,  descend  to 
the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and  solemn 
vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  wondrous, 
beautiful  prairies, 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sun 
shine,  1090 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple 
amorphas. 

Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk 
and  the  roebuck ; 

Over  them  wandered  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  rider 
less  horses ; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary 
with  travel ; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael's 
children,  1095 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ;  and  above  their  terri 
ble  war-trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vul 
ture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaughtered 
in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heav 
ens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of  these 
savage  marauders ;  noc 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of  swift- 
running  rivers ; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk  of 
the  desert, 


328      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by 

the  brook-side, 
And   over   all  is  the  sky,  the   clear   and   crystalline 

heaven, 
Like   the   protecting   hand   of   God   inverted    above 

them.  1105 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark 

Mountains, 
Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trappers 

behind  him. 
Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the  maiden 

and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day  to 

o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  smoke 

of  his  camp-fire  mo 

Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain ;  but 

at  nightfall, 
When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found  only 

embers  and  ashes. 
And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and  their 

bodies  were  weary, 

Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic  Fata  Morgana 
Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and 

vanished  before  them.  1115 

1114.  The  Italian  name  for  a  meteoric  phenomenon  nearly 
allied  to  a  mirage,  witnessed  in  the  Straits  of  Messina,  and  less 
frequently  elsewhere,  and  consisting  in  the  appearance  in  the 
air  over  the  sea  of  the  objects  which  are  upon  the  neighboring 
coasts.  In  the  southwest  of  our  own  country,  the  mirage  is  very 
common,  of  lakes  which  stretch  before  the  tired  traveller,  and 
the  deception  is  so  great  that  parties  have  sometimes  beckoned 
to  other  travellers,  who  seemed  to  be  wading  knee-deep,  to  come 
»ver  to  them  where  dry  land  was. 


EVANGELINE.  329 

Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there  silently 

entered 

Into  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience  as  great  as 

her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her 

people, 
From  the  far-off   hunting-grounds  of   the   cruel  Ca- 

manches,  1120 

Where   her   Canadian   husband,   a  coureur-des-bois, 

had  been  murdered. 
Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  warmest 

and  friendliest  welcome 
Gave   they,  with  words  of   cheer,  and  she   sat   and 

feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the 

embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his 

companions,  1125 

Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase  of  the 

deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where 

the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed   on   their   swarthy  cheeks,  and   their   forms 

wrapped  up  in  their  blankets, 

Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she  sat  and  re 
peated 

Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of  her  In 
dian  accent,  nso 
.  All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and  pains, 

and  reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that 

another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  beers 

disappointed. 


330      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman's 

compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had  suffered 

was  near  her,  1135 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had 

ended 

Still  was  mute  ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious  hor 
ror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated  the 

tale  of  the  Mowis ; 
Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and  wedded 

a  maiden,  iwo 

But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from 

the  wigwam, 

Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the  sun 
shine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far 

into  the  forest. 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a 

weird  incantation, 
Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was  wooed 

by  a  phantom,  11*5 

That,  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father's  lodge,  in  the 

hush  of  the  twilight, 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to 

the  maiden, 
Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume  through 

the  forest, 
And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by  her 

people. 

1145.  The  story  of  Lilinau  and  other  Indian  legends  will  be 
found  in  H.  li.  Schoolcraft's  Algic  Researches. 


EVANGELINE.  331 

Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline 
listened  nso 

To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region 
around  her 

Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest 
the  enchantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the 
moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  mysterious  splen 
dor 

Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and  filling 
the  woodland.  1155 

With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the 
branches 

Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whis 
pers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's 
heart,  but  a  secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of 
the  swallow.  ueo 

It  was  no  earthly  fear.  A  breath  from  the  region  of 
spirits 

Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night ;  and  she  felt  for  a 
moment 

That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursuing  a 
phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the 
phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  resumed,  and 
the  Shawnee  lies 

Said,  as  they  journeyed  along,  —  "  Qn  the  western 
slope  of  these  mountains 


332      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief  of 

the  Mission. 
Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of  Mary 

and  Jesus ; 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with  pain, 

as  they  hear  him." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  and  secret  emotion,  Evangeline 

answered,  ii'o 

"  Let  us  go  to   the  Mission,  for   there  good  tidings 

await  us !  " 
Thither  they  turned  their  steeds ;  and  behind  a  spur 

of  the  mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur  of 

voices, 
And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a 

river, 
Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit 

Mission.  ins 

Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 

village, 
Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children.     A 

crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed  by 

grapevines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face    n  the  multitude  kneel 
ing  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel.     Ai-  ft,  through  the  intri 
cate  arches  iiso 
Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  vespers, 
Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs  of 

the  branches. 
Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  nearer 

approaching, 
Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in  the  evening 

devotions. 


EVANGELINE.  333 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benediction 
had  fallen  nss 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from  the 
hands  of  the  sower, 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  strangers, 
and  bade  them 

Welcome ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with  be 
nignant  expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother-tongue  in 
the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted  them  into  his 
wigwam.  1190 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on  cakes 
of  the  maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water-gourd 
of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told ;  and  the  priest  with  solem 
nity  answered :  — 

"  Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel,  seated 

On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden  re 
poses,  1195 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale ;  then  arose  and  continued 
his  journey ! " 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake  with  an 
accent  of  kindness  ; 

But  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as  in  winter 
the  snow-flakes 

Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds  have 
departed. 

"  Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued  the  priest ; 
"  but  in  autumn,  1200 

When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the  Mis 
sion." 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek  and 
submissive, 


334       HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad  and  af 
flicted." 

So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ;  and  betimes  on 
the  morrow, 

Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian  guides 
and  companions,  1205 

Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed  at 
the  Mission. 

Slowly,   slowly,   slowly   the    days   succeeded   each 

other,  — 
Days  and  weeks  and  months ;  and  the  fields  of  maize 

that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger  she  came, 

now  waving  about  her, 
Lifted   their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves   interlacing, 

and  forming  1210 

Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pillaged 

by  squirrels. 
Then  in  the  golden  weather   the  maize  was  husked, 

and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened  a 

lover, 
But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a  thief  in 

the  corn-field. 
Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought  not  her 

lover.  1215 

"  Patience  I  "  the  priest  would  say ;  "  have  faith,  and 

thy  prayer  will  be  answered  ! 
Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from 

the  meadow, 
See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north,  as  true  as 

the  magnet ; 


EVANGELINE.  335 

This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God  has 

planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct   the  traveller's 

journey  1220 

Over  the   sea-like,    pathless,   limitless   waste   of   the 

desert. 
Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.     The  blossoms  of 

passion, 
Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller  of 

fragrance, 
But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their 

odor  is  deadly. 

Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and  here 
after  1225 
Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet  with  the 

dews  of  nepenthe." 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the  winter  — 

yet  Gabriel  came  not ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of  the 

robin  and  bluebird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet  Gabriel 

came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a  rumor  was 

wafted  1230 

1219.  Silphium  ladniatum  or  compass-plant  is  found  on  the 
prairies  of  Michigan  and  Wisconsin  and  to  the  south  and  west, 
and  is  said  to  present  the  edges  of  the  lower  leaves  due  north 
and  south. 

1226.  In  early  Greek  poetry  the  asphodel  meadows  were 
haunted  by  the  shades  of  heroes.  See  Homer's  Odyssey,  xxiv. 
13,  where  Pope  translates  :  — 

"  In  ever  flowering  meads  of  Asphodel." 

The  asphodel  is  of  the  lily  family,  and  is  known  also  by  the 
name  king's  spear. 


336      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor  of  blos 
som. 

Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan 
forests, 

Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw 
River. 

And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes  of 
St.  Lawrence, 

Saying  a  sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the  Mis 
sion.  1235 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long  and  perilous 
marches, 

She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the  Michigan 
forests, 

Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and  fallen  to 
ruin! 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in  sea 
sons  and  places 
Divers   and    distant    far  was    seen    the    wandering 

maiden ;  —  1240 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek  Moravian 

Missions, 
Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of  the 

army, 
Now   in   secluded   hamlets,   in   towns   and   populous 

cities. 
Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremem- 

bered. 
Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the  long 

journey ;  1245 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it 

ended. 
1241.  A  rendering  of  the  Moravian  Gnadenhiitten. 


EVANGELINE.  337 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from  her 
beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom  and 
the  shadow. 

Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of  gray 
o'er  her  forehead, 

Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her  earthly  hor 
izon,  1250 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the 
morning. 

v. 

In  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the  Dela 
ware's  waters, 

Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the 
apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city 
he  founded. 

There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  emblem 
of  beauty,  1255 

And  the  streets  still  reecho  the  names  of  the  trees  of 
the  forest, 

As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose 
haunts  they  molested. 

There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed, 
an  exile, 

Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and  a 
country. 

There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died;  and  when  he 
departed,  1260 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descend 
ants. 

1256.  The  streets  of  Philadelphia,  as  is  well  known,  are  many 
of  them,  especially  those  running  east  and  west,  named  for  trees, 
as  Chestnut,  Walnut,  Locust,  Spruce,  Pine,  etc. 


338      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly  streets  of 
the  city, 

Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  no 
longer  a  stranger ; 

And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and  Thou  of 
the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country,     1255 

Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were  brothers  and 
sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed  en 
deavor, 

Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  uncom 
plaining, 

Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her 
thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 

As  from  a  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the  morn 
ing  1270 

Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape  below  us, 

Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and  ham 
lets, 

So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the 
world  far  below  her, 

Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love ;  and  the 
pathway 

Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth  and  fair 
in  the  distance.  1275 

Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.  Within  her  heart  was  his 
image, 

Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last  she 
beheld  him, 

Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  deathlike  silence  and 
absence. 

Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it  was 
not. 


EVANGELINE.  339 

Over  him  years  had  no  power ;  he  was  not  changed, 

but  transfigured ;  1230 

He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead,  and 

not  absent ; 

Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to  others, 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had 

taught  her. 
So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous 

spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air  with 

aroma.  1235 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow, 
Meekly  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her 

Saviour. 

Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy ;  fre 
quenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes  of 

the  city, 
Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves  from 

the  sunlight,  1290 

Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished  neg 
lected. 
Night  after  night  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as  the 

watchman  repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well  in 

the  city, 
High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of  hei 

taper. 
Day  after  day,  in   the   gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow 

through  the  suburbs  1295 

Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and  fruits 

for  the  market, 
Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home  from  its 

watchings. 


340      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence  fell  on  the 
city, 

Presaged  by  wondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by  flocks  of 
wild  pigeons, 

Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  with  naught  in  their 
craws  but  an  acorn.  1300 

And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month  of  Sep 
tember, 

^Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a  lake 
in  the  meadow, 

So  death  flooded  life,  and,  overflowing  its  natural  mar 
gin* 

Spread  to  a  brackish  lake  the  silver  stream  of  ex 
istence. 

Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to  charm, 
the  oppressor  ;  isos 

But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his 
anger ;  — 

Only,  alas  !  the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends  nor  at 
tendants, 

Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the 
homeless. 

Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of  meadows 
and  woodlands ;  — 

1298.  The  year  1793  was  long  remembered  as  the  year  when 
yellow  fever  was  a  terrible  pestilence  in  Philadelphia.  Charles 
Brockden  Brown  made  his  novel  of  Arthur  Mervyn  turn  largely 
upon  the  incidents  of  the  plague,  which  drove  Brown  away  from 
home  for  a  time. 

1308.  Philadelphians  have  identified  the  old  Friends'  alms- 
house  on  Walnut  Street,  now  no  longer  standing,  as  that  in  which 
Evangeline  ministered  to  Gabriel,  and  so  real  was  the  story  that 
some  even  ventured  to  point  out  the  graves  of  the  two  lovers. 
See  Westcott's  The  Historic  Mansions  of  Philadelphia,  pp.  101, 
102. 


EVANGELINE.  341 

Now  the  city  surrounds  it ;  but  still,  with  its  gateway 
and  wicket  isio 

Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls  seem 
to  echo 

Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord :  — "  The  poor  ye  al° 
ways  have  with  you." 

Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of 
Mercy.  The  dying 

Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to  be 
hold  there 

Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead  with 
splendor,  1315 

Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints  and 
apostles, 

Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen  at  a  distance. 

Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city  celes 
tial, 

Into  whose  shining  gates  erelong  their  spirits  would 
enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets,  de 
serted  and  silent,  1320 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the 
almshouse. 

Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers  in 
the  garden, 

And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest 
among  them, 

That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  fra 
grance  and  beauty. 

Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors, 
cooled  by  the  east-wind,  1325 

Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the 
belfry  of  Christ  Church, 


342      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows 

were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in 

their  church  at  Wicaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on 

her  spirit ; 
Something  within  her  said,  "  At  length  thy  trials  are 

ended  ; "  1330 

And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the  cham 
bers  of  sickness. 

Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attend 
ants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow,  and 

in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing 

their  faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow 

by  the  roadside.  1335 

Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she  passed, 

for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the  walls 

of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the 

consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed  it 

forever.  1340 


1328.  The  Swedes'  church  at  Wicaco  is  still  standing,  the 
oldest  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  having  been  begun  in  1698. 
Wicaco  is  within  the  city,  on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  River. 
An  interesting  account  of  the  old  church  and  its  historic  associa 
tions  will  be  found  in  Westcott's  book  just  mentioned,  pp.  56-67. 
Wilson  the  ornithologist  lies  buried  in  the  churchyard  adjoining 
the  church. 


EVANGEL1NE.  343 

Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night 

time ; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling  of 

wonder, 
Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a 

shudder 
Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flowerets 

dropped  from  her  fingers,  1345 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of 

the  morning. 

Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such  terri 
ble  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their 

pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an 

old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded 

his  temples ;  1350 

But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a 

moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier 

manhood ; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are 

dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the 

fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled 

its  portals,  1355 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass 

over. 
Motionless,   senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit 

exhausted 


344      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  us 

the  darkness, 
Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking  and 

sinking. 
Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied 

reverberations,  iseo 

Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that 

succeeded 

Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint 
like, 

"  Gabriel  I  O  my  beloved ! "   and  died  away  into  si 
lence. 
Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home  of 

his  childhood ; 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among 

them,  ises 

Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands ;  and,  walking 

under  their  shadow, 
As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his 

vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his 

eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  hi/" 

bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents 

unuttered  1370 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his 

tongue  would  have  spoken. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  rise;   and  Evangeline,  kneeling 

beside  him, 

Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 
Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes ;  but  it  suddenly  sank 

into  darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  at  a 

casement.  1375 


EVANGELINE.  345 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the 

sorrow, 
All    the    aching   of   heart,    the    restless,    unsatisfied 

longing, 
All   the   dull,  deep   pain,  and   constant   anguish   of 

patience ! 
And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her 

bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  "  Father, 

I  thank  thee !  "  isso 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  far  away  from 
its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  are 
sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic  church 
yard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown  and  un 
noticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beside 
them,  isss 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at 
rest  and  forever, 

Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer 
are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased 
from  their  labors, 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  completed 
their  journey  I 

Still   stands  the  forest   primeval;   but   under  the 

shade  of  its  branches  1390 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  language, 


346      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Only   along  the   shore   of   the  mournful  and  misty 

Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers  from 

exile 
"Wandered  back  to   their  native  land  to  die  in  its 

bosom. 
In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are  still 

busy ;  1395 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kirtles 

of  homespun, 

And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's  story, 
While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced,  neigh 
boring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 

of  the  forest. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

EDGAR  POE  was  born  January  19, 1809,  in  Boston.  His 
father,  David  Poe,  the  runaway  son  of  General  David  Poe 
of  Baltimore,  was  an  actor ;  his  mother  was  a  young  actress 
of  English  descent.  Soon  after  Edgar's  birth  his  father 
died,  and  at  his  mother's  death,  about  three  years  later,  the 
boy  was  adopted  into  the  family  of  John  Allan,  a  wealthy 
merchant  of  Richmond.  Mr.  Allan  seems  to  have  be 
stowed  on  his  adopted  son  everything  he  would  have  given 
his  own  child,  —  although  regarding  him  with  pride,  per 
haps,  rather  than  affection,  —  and  Poe's  early  years  were 
happy  ones.  He  received  an  excellent  education  at  the 
Manor  House  School,  in  Stoke  Newington,  during  the 
five  years  (1815-1820)  that  the  family  was  in  England, 
and  for  the  next  five  years  at  a  classical  school  in  Rich 
mond.  In  1826  he  entered  the  schools  of  ancient  and 
modern  languages  in  the  University  of  Virginia,  which  had 
just  opened  its  doors,  with  Thomas  Jefferson  in  the  presi 
dent's  chair.  There  Poe's  quick  and  brilliant  scholarship 
won  for  him  the  highest  honors  in  Latin  and  French  ;  but 
he  was  not  a  diligent  student,  nor  was  he  enamored  of  ac 
curacy,  and  although  he  seems  never  to  have  come  under 
the  notice  of  the  faculty  in  a  way  to  invite  censure,  he 
was  nevertheless  not  allowed  to  return  for  his  second  year, 
but  was  kept  at  home  by  his  guardian  and  put  to  work  in 
the  counting-room. 

This  work  proved  unbearable  to  Poe,  and  he  soon  ran 


348  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

away,  as  his  father  had  done  before  him,  and  went  to  Bos 
ton.  There  he  appears  to  have  lived  under  an  assumed 
name.  His  first  book,  Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,  was 
published  in  1827  under  the  pseudonym  of  ''A  Bostonian," 
not  even  the  printer  knowing  the  author's  real  name,  and  in 
the  same  year  Poe  enlisted  in  the  United  States  Army  as 
Edgar  A.  Perry,  giving  his  age  as  twenty-two. 

His  military  career  covers  a  period  of  four  years,  and 
is  not  without  incident.  When  he  enlisted,  he  was  assigned 
to  the  First  Artillery,  and  he  served  with  this  command  at 
Fort  Independence  in  Boston  Harbor,  and  later  at  Fort 
Moultrie  and  Fortress  Monroe,  rising  to  the  rank  of  ser 
geant-major.  Mr.  Allan  learned  of  his  whereabouts  in 
1829,  and  secured  his  discharge  from  the  army.  In  the 
same  year  Poe  published  at  Baltimore,  under  his  own  name, 
a  second  volume  of  his  poems,  entitled  Al  Aaraaf,  Tamer 
lane,  and  Minor  Poems.  In  1830  he  entered  the  Military 
Academy  at  West  Point,  where  he  stayed  about  six  months. 
Deliberate,  prolonged  neglect  of  duty  then  caused  him  to 
be  court-martialed  and  dismissed.  Reconciliation  with  Mr. 
Allan  was  this  time  impossible,  and  Poe  was  thrown  finally 
on  his  own  resources. 

Immediately  after  leaving  West  Point,  Poe  went  to  New 
York,  and  there  published  a  volume  with  the  simple  title 
Poems,  calling  it  a  second  edition,  although  it  was  really  a 
third.  He  then  settled  at  Baltimore,  where  in  October, 
1833,  he  won  a  prize  of  $100  by  his  story  entitled  A  MS. 
found  in  a  Bottle.  He  began,  also,  to  write  for  The 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  a  new  periodical  published 
at  Richmond,  and  after  a  short  time  he  removed  to  that  city 
and  became  the  Messenger's  assistant  editor.  He  was  well 
fitted  for  editorial  work,  and  his  many  tales,  criticisms,  and 
poems  soon  made  the  magazine  famous.  Much  of  this  work 
was  done  under  pressure  and  is  of  little  interest  now  ;  a  few 
of  the  poems  strike  a  new  note,  and  a  half  dozen  of  the 
tales  have  been  preserved  in  the  Tales  of  the  Folio  Club. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  349 

But  his  book  reviews  made  the  new  Southern  monthly  a 
magazine  of  national  reputation.  They  were  of  a  sort  not 
previously  known  in  this  country,  bold,  keen,  and  effective  ; 
they  aroused  much  interest,  and  they  made  Foe's  name 
known  throughout  the  land.  During  this  period  of  prosperity 
Poe  married,  on  May  16, 1836,  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm, 
who  was  then  less  than  fourteen  years  old. 

In  January,  1837,  however,  the  prosperity  ended.  Poe's 
eccentric  nature  caused  him  to  leave  the  Messenger,  and  he 
went  to  New  York  to  live.  He  stayed  in  New  York  one 
year,  publishing  his  longest  story,  The  Narrative  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym,  and  then  removed  to  Philadelphia.  During 
the  six  years  of  his  residence  there  he  contributed  to  various 
magazines  and  did  much  editorial  work.  He  published 
Tales  of  the  Arabesque  and  Grotesque  (1840)  ;  he  edited 
The  Gentleman's  Magazine,  reprinting  his  old  work  some 
times  with  changed  titles  and  slightly  revised  text ;  he  tried 
without  success  to  start  a  journal  of  his  own  ;  he  edited  also, 
for  a  short  time,  Graham's  Magazine,  then  a  leading  literary 
journal.  In  1843  he  won  another  prize  of  $100  with  The 
Gold-Bug. 

Poe's  popularity  was  growing,  and  it  reached  its  height 
in  1844,  when  he  returned  to  New  York  and  formed  a  con 
nection  with  The  Mirror.  In  January,  1845,  this  paper 
published  The  Raven,  which  brought  the  author  instanta 
neous  fame.  He  became  the  literary  success  of  the  day, 
and  his  works  were  published  and  sold  in  new  editions. 
But  despite  these  apparently  brilliant  prospects,  worldly 
success  was  as  far  distant  as  ever.  For  a  few  months  Poe 
was  one  of  the  editors  of  a  new  weekly,  The  Broadway 
Journal,  but  he  broke  with  his  partner,  and  an  attempt  to 
conduct  the  paper  alone  resulted  in  failure.  During  this 
year  he  published  a  volume  of  Tales  and  The  Raven  and 
Other  Poems. 

Early  in  1846  Poe  removed  to  the  famous  cottage  at 
Fordham,  New  York,  and  here,  on  January  30,  1847,  his 


350  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

young  wife  died  amid  scenes  of  direst  poverty.  The  brief 
remainder  of  Poe's  life  was  marked  by  a  feverish  eagerness 
approaching  very  near  to  insanity.  He  wrote  for  various 
magazines,  publishing  among  many  other  things  The  Bells 
and  Eureka.  His  life  became  more  and  more  erratic  ;  on 
the  3d  of  October,  1849,  he  was  found  in  delirium  in  Balti 
more,  and  four  days  later  he  died  in  a  hospital  in  that  city. 
Poe's  writings,  whether  prose  or  verse,  always  reflect  the 
nature  of  the  man.  He  was  reserved,  isolated,  and  dreamy, 
with  high-strung  nerves  and  a  longing  for  solitude,  and  his 
writings  show  a  wildness  of  genius  and  a  fondness  for 
scenes  of  mystery  and  desolation.  The  body  of  his  poeti 
cal  work  is  slight,  but  it  is  marked  by  a  weird  melody 
hardly  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  English.  His  prose  is  more 
considerable  in  amount,  and  consists  of  criticisms  and  of  'a 
morbidly  imaginative  and  sombrely  supernatural  fiction. 
His  critical  work,  appearing  at  a  time  when  true  criticism 
was  almost  unknown  in  America,  was  long  considered  his 
best  work,  but  is  now  little  read.  The  themes  of  his  tales 
are  to  many  readers  forbiddingly  remote ;  he  dwells  on 
scenes  of  physical  decay  that  are  sometimes  repulsive  and 
loathsome.  But  to  persons  of  sensitive  imagination  they 
have  a  notable  charm,  and  they  have  served  as  models  for 
a  whole  class  of  weird  and  mysterious  literature.  Poe  will 
be  known  by  most  readers  as  the  author  of  a  few  curious 
poems  and  many  short  pieces  of  powerful  and  uncanny  fic 
tion  ;  but  the  beauty  and  rhythm  of  these  few  poems,  and 
the  power  and  intensity  of  the  tales,  make  secure  Poe's  place 
among  the  immortals  of  American  literature. 


POEMS. 

THE   RAVEN.* 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 
and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 
lore,  — 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 
a  tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  cham 
ber  door. 

"  'T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my 
chamber  door :  5 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

*  The  Raven  was  first  formally  published  in  the  American 
Whig  Review  for  February,  1845,  but  had  been  copied  by  per 
mission  in  the  Evening  Mirror  for  January  29,  of  the  same 
year.  Later  in  the  year  it  was  the  title  poem  of  a  volume  con 
taining  most  of  Foe's  work  in  verse.  Many  stories  are  told  with 
regard  to  the  circumstances  of  its  composition,  none  of  which 
deserves  much  more  credence  than  Poe's  own  account  in  his 
Philosophy  of  Composition,  which,  if  taken  literally,  would  prove 
the  poem  to  be  little  more  than  a  tour  de  force.  Poe  did 
probably  apply,  in  a  semi-conscious  way,  certain  principles  of 
style  and  versification  that  he  had  partly  developed  for  himself, 
and  he  may  have  owed  something  to  an  obscure  poet  named 
Chivers,  over  and  above  what  he  owed  Coleridge  and  Mrs. 
Browning  ;  but,  when  all  is  said,  the  world  has  not  been  wrong 
in  regarding  The  Raven  as  a  highly  original  and  powerfully 
moving  poem,  and  in  according  it  a  popularity  second  only  to 
that  which  it  has  long  granted  to  Gray's  Elegy.  Like  the  Elegy, 


352  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem 
ber, 

And   each   separate  dying   ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow  ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore,  10 

For  the   rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore : 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

The  Raven  does  not  in  all  probability  represent  the  highest 
reaches  of  its  author's  art  (there  are  lines  in  Israfel,  in  the 
lyric  To  Helen,  and  in  the  exquisite  stanzas  To  One  in  Paradise 
that  are  unmatched  in  The  Raven),  but  the  felicitous  moralizing 
of  the  one  poem  and  the  dramatic  interest  and  weird  intensity  of 
the  other  abundantly  justify  the  public  in  its  preferences.  Poe's 
art,  too,  if  not  seen  at  its  highest  in  The  Raven,  receives  therein 
its  most  adequate  and  characteristic  expression  outside  of  Ula- 
lume,  which  the  public  has  never  taken  quite  seriously.  The 
student  may  be  referred  to  a  chapter  in  Professor  C.  A.  Smith's 
Repetition  and  Parallelism  in  English  Verse  for  full  details  with 
regard  to  style.  Professor  Smith  brings  out  admirably  Poe's 
kinship  with  the  balladists,  and  gives  a  satisfactory  account  of 
his  use  of  that  time-honored  poetic  artifice,  the  repetend,  —  an 
artifice  which  is  as  plainly  seen  in  the 

Abstineas  avidas,  Mora  precor  atra,  manus. 
Abatineas,  Mora  atra,  precor, 

of  Tibullus  (El.  I,  iii.)  as  in  any  stanza  of  The  Raven. 

10.  Burger  wrote  a  ballad  of  Lenore  from  which  Poe  may 
have  got  this  name.  The  idea  of  celebrating,  whether  in  verse  or 
in  melancholy  sentiment,  the  death  of  a  beautiful  young  woman 
seems  to  have  been  with  him  from  boyhood,  and  in  his  manhood 
he  maintained  that  such  a  subject  "  is,  unquestionably,  the  most 
poetical  topic  in  the  world."  It  was  so  for  him,  at  any  rate, 
both  in  his  verse  and  in  his  prose-poems  such  as  Ligeia  and 
Eleonora. 


THE  RAVEN.  353 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating  15 

"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door : 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore ;  20 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And   so   faintly   you  came   tapping,  tapping  at  my 

chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door :  — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing,  25 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "Lenore?" 
This   I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "  Lenore  :  " 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more.          so 


354  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 

before. 
"  Surely,"  said   I,  "  surely   that  is  something  at  my 

window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore  ; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery 

explore :  35 

'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here   I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a 

flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Kaven  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped 

or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of   lord   or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door,  40 

Perched  .upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door: 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
j  smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 

wore,  — 
"  Though   thy  crest  be   shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I 

said,  "  art  sure  no  craven,  45 

45.  By  this  and  other  touches  Poe  intended,  as  he  tells  us,  to 
give  his  verses,  for  the  sake  of  contrast, "  an  air  of  the  fantastic, 
approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludicrous  as  was  admissible."  That 
the  Raven,  though  shorn  like  a  monk,  was  no  coward  is  made 
evident  by  his  cavalier  entrance  into  an  unknown  place. 


THE  RAVEN.  355 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore : 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

so  plainly, 
Though  its   answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy 

bore ;  50 

For  we   cannot   help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 

being 
Ever  yet   was   blessed   with   seeing  bird   above  his 

chamber  door, 
Bird  or  beast   upon   the   sculptured   bust  above  his 

chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But   the   Raven,  sitting   lonely   on    the   placid  bust. 

spoke  only  55 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour, 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then 

he  fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  —  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore."    eo 

47.  Pluto  was  god  of  Hades  —  of  the  infernal  regions  — 
hence  the  epithet  conveys  the  ideas  of  darkness  and  mystery. 
Cf .  Horace,  Carm.  I,  iv. :  "  Et  domus  exilis  Plutonia." 

49.  Ravens  make  very  intelligent  pets  (cf.  Barnaby  Rudge) 
and  can  be  taught  to  imitate  speech  somewhat.  As  an  omen  of 
ill  fortune  the  bird  figures  frequently  in  English  literature  from 


356  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Startled  at  the  stillness   broken   by   reply   so   aptly 

spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore  : 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore  65 

Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 

and  bust  and  door ; 
Then,  upon   the   velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 

linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore,  ™ 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex 
pressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core  ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining  ™ 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light 
gloated  o'er, 

the  time  of  the  Anglo  Saxon  poets,  who  continually  refer  to  it  in 
their  martial  verses. 

64.  Burden  =  refrain. 

76.  That  is,  cast  a  sidelong  ray  over,  —  unless  Poe  wished  to 


THE  RAVEN.  357 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining    with  the  lamp-light 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor.  so 

"Wretch,"  I  cried,. "thy  God   hath   lent  thee  —by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil !  ss 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en 
chanted  — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 
implore  : 

Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell 
me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore."      »o 

attribute  to  the  light  some  furtive  or  sinister  character.     From 
any  point  of  view  the  use  of  the  word  is  rather  questionable. 

83.  Nepenthe,  a  "  sorrow-dispelling  "  drink  mentioned  in  the 
Odyssey  (iv.  219-30).  Cf.  Comus,  11.  675-6  :  — 

"  That  Nepenthes  which  the  wife  of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena." 

89.  Balm  in  Gilead.  See  Century  Dictionary  and  cf.  Jere 
miah  viii.  22:  "Js  there  no  balm  in  Gilead?  is  there  no  physi 
cian  there  ?  " 


358  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

"Prophet  !  "  said  I,  "thing  of  evil  — prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 

both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden   whom   the  angels 

name  Lenore  !  "  95 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

4 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !  "  I 
shrieked,  upstarting: 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  quit  the  bust  above 
my  door !  100 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chambei 
door ; 

93.  Aidenn,  some  distant  place  of  pleasure,  —  Eden  or  Aden, 
of  which  it  is  a  fanciful  variant. 

96.  Poe  tells  us  in  his  curious  account  of  the  evolution  of  his 
poem  that  this  stanza  was  the  first  that  he  wrote  out. 

101.  "It  will  be  observed,"  says  Poe,  "that  the  words  'from 
out  my  heart '  involve  the  first  metaphorical  expression  in  the 
poem.  .  .  .  The  reader  begins  now  to  regard  the  Raven  as  em 
blematical  "  ["  of  Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remembrance  "]. 


THE  RAVEN.  359 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 
is  dreaming,  105 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him   streaming   throws   his 
shadow  on  the  floor  : 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 
on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore ! 


360  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER1 

Son  cceur  est  un  luth  suspendu  ; 
Sitot  qu'on  le  touche  il  r^sonne. 

Stranger.2 

DURING  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless 
day  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung 
oppressively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing 
alone,  on  horseback,3  through  a  singularly  dreary  tract 
of  country ;  and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades 
of  the  evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy 
House  of  Usher.  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but,  with 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  building,  a  sense  of  insuffer 
able  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable ; 

1  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  was  first  published  in  Burton's 
Gentleman's  Magazine  for  September,  1839,  f.  e.,  just  one  year 
after  the  appearance  of  the  weird  tale  usually  coupled  with  it,  — 
Ligeia.     The  latter  story  seems  to  have  been  Poe's  favorite,  but 
the  public  has  on  the  whole  preferred  the  House  of  Usher.    Both 
represent  Poe's  morbid  but  etherealized  supernaturalism  at  its 
height;  yet,  while  Ligeia  is  perhaps  stronger  in  direct  personal 
appeal,  and  is  thus  a  more  characteristic  product  of  its  author's 
intense  poetic  subjectivity,  Usher  is  probably  superior  in  artistic 
evolution,  and  in  the  perfect  concord  of  its  haunting  harmonies 
of  sound  and  color.     Poe  would  have  made  a  name  for  himself 
in  literature  had  he  written  merely  The  Purloined  Letter  and 
the  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom  •  when,  however,  we  consider  that 
he  is  likewise  the  author  of  Usher,  Ligeia,  The  Masque  of  the 
Red  Death,  and  Shadow,  we  must  concede  that,  even  without  his 
poetry,  he  would  have  won  for  himself  not  merely  a  position  in 
literature,  but  a  place  high  and  apart  and  practically  inaccessible. 

2  "  His  heart  is  a  suspended  lute;  as  soon  as  it  is  touched  it 
resounds."     J.  P.  de  Be'ranger  (1780-1857)  was  a  very  popular 
French  lyric  poet  of  democratic  proclivities. 

8  It  is  amusing  to  find  Poe  giving  his  fine  tale  the  cachet  of 
G.  P.  R.  James,  whose  habit  of  opening  his  stories  with  a  solitary 
horseman  has  been  much  ridiculed. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    361 

for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half- 
pleasurable,  because  poetic,  sentiment  with  which  the 
mind  usually  receives  even  the  sternest  natural  images 
of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon  the  scene 
before  me  —  upon  the  mere  house,  and  the  simple 
landscape  features  of  the  domain,  upon  the  bleak 
walls,  upon  the  vacant  eye-like  windows,  upon  a  few 
rank  sedges,  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks  of  decayed 
trees  —  with  an  utter  depression  of  soul  which  I  can 
compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more  properly  than  to 
the  after-dream  of  the  reveler  upon  opium  :  the  bitter 
lapse  into  every-day  life,  the  hideous  dropping  off  of 
the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sinking,  a  sickening 
of  the  heart,  an  unredeemed  dreariness  of  thought, 
which  no  goading  of  the  imagination  could  torture  into 
aught  of  the  sublime.  What  was  it  —  I  paused  to 
think  —  what  was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  House  of  Usher  ?  It  was  a  mystery 
all  insoluble  ;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the  shadowy 
fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered.  I  was 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion 
that  while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations  of 
very  simple  natural  objects  which  have  the  power 
of  thus  affecting  us,  still  the  analysis  of  this  power 
lies  among  considerations  beyond  our  depth.  •  It  was 
possible,  I  reflected,  that  a  mere  different  arrange 
ment  of  the  particulars  of  the  scene,  of  the  details  of 
the  picture,  would  be  sufficient  to  modify,  or  perhaps 
to  annihilate,  its  capacity  for  sorrowful  impression,1 
and,  acting  upon  this  idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to  the 
precipitous  brink  of  a  black  and  lurid  tarn  2  that  lay 

1  Poe  means   "for  producing  sorrowful  impressions."     The 
word  may  be  used,  however,  in  an  active  sense. 

2  A  small  mountain  lake,  generally  one  that  has  no  visible 
feeders.     Poe  is  fond  of  this  poetic  word. 


362  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

in  unruffled  lustre  by  the  dwelling,  and  gazed  down — 
but  with  a  shudder  even,  more  thrilling  than  before 

—  upon  the  remodeled  and  inverted  images  of  the 
gray  sedge,  and  the  ghastly  tree-stems,  and  the  vacant 
and  eye-like  windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  pro 
posed  to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  pro 
prietor,  Roderick  Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon 
companions  in  boyhood ;  but  many  years  Jiad  elapsed 
since  our  last  meeting.  A  letter,  however,  had  lately 
reached  me  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country  —  a  letter 
from  him  —  which  in  its  wildly  importunate  nature 
had  admitted  of  no  other  than  a  personal  reply.  The 
MS.  gave  evidence  of  nervous  agitation.  The  writer 
spoke  of  acute  bodily  illness,  of  a  mental  disorder 
which  oppressed  him,  and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see 
me,  as  his  best  and  indeed  his  only  personal  friend, 
with  a  view  of  attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of  my 
society,  some  alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the 
manner  in  which  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said  — 
it  was  the  apparent  heart  that  went  with  his  request 

—  which  allowed  me  no  room  for  hesitation  ;  and  I 
accordingly  obeyed  forthwith  what  I  still  considered 
a  very  singular  summons. 

Although  as  boys  we  had  been  even  intimate  asso 
ciates,  yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His 
reserve  had  been  always  excessive  and  habitual.  1 
was  aware,  however,  that  his  very  ancient  family  had 
been  noted,  time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar  sensi 
bility  of  temperament,  displaying  itself,  through  long 
ages,  in  many  works  of  exalted  art,  and  manifested  of 
late  in  repeated  deeds  of  munificent  yet  unobtrusive 
charity,  as  well  as  in  a  passionate  devotion  to  the 
intricacies,  perhaps  even  more  than  to  the  orthodox 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    363 

and  easily  recognizable  beauties,  of  musical  science. 
I  had  learned,  too,  the  very  remarkable  fact  that  the 
stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all  time-honored  as  it  was,  had 
put  forth  at  no  period  any  enduring  branch  ;  in  other 
words,  that  the  entire  family  lay  in  the  direct  line  of 
descent,  and  had  always,  with  a  very  trifling  and  very 
temporary  variation,  so  lain.1  It  was  this  deficiency, 
I  considered,  while  running  over  in  thought  the  per 
fect  keeping  of  the  character  of  the  premises  with  the 
accredited  character  of  the  people,  and  while  speculat 
ing  upon  the  possible  influence  which  the  one,  in  the 
long  lapse  of  centuries,  might  have  exercised  upon  the 
other,  —  it  was  this  deficiency,  perhaps,  of  collateral 
issue,  and  the  consequent  undeviating  transmission 
from  sire  to  son  of  the  patrimony  with  the  name,  which 
had  at  length  so  identified  the  two  as  to  merge  the 
original  title  of  the  estate  in  the  quaint  and  equivocal 
appellation  of  the  "  House  of  Usher,"  —  an  appellation 
which  seemed  to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the  peas 
antry  who  used  it,  both  the  family  and  the  family 
mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat 
childish  experiment,  that  of  looking  down  within  the 
tarn,  had  been  to  deepen  the  first  singular  impression. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  consciousness  of  the 
rapid  increase  of  my  superstition  —  for  why  should 
I  not  so  term  it  ?  —  served  mainly  to  accelerate  the 
increase  itself.  Such,  I  have  long  known,  is  the  para 
doxical  2  law  of  all  sentiments  having  terror  as  a  basis. 
And  it  might  have  been  for  this  reason  only,  that, 

1  Notice  the  emphatic  periodicity  of  this  sentence,  as  well  as 
the  loose  use  of  "  people  "  in  the  sentence  that  follows. 

2  That  is,  apparently  absurd,  yet  on  investigation  proved  to 
be  true. 


364  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

when  I  again  uplifted  my  eyes  to  the  house  itself 
from  its  image  in  the  pool,  there  grew  in  my  mind  a 
strange  fancy,  —  a  fancy  so  ridiculous,  indeed,  that  I 
but  mention  it  to  show  the  vivid  force  of  the  sensa 
tions  which  oppressed  me.  I  had  so  worked  upon  my 
imagination  as  really  to  believe  that  about  the  whole 
mansion  and  domain  there  hung  an  atmosphere  pecu 
liar  to  themselves  and  their  immediate  vicinity :  an 
atmosphere  which  had  no  affinity  with  the  air  of 
heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from  the  decayed 
trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the  silent  tarn  ;  a  pesti 
lent  and  mystic  vapor,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly  discern 
ible,  and  leaden-hued. 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been 
a  dream,  I  scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of 
the  building.  Its  principal  feature  seemed  to  be  that 
of  an  excessive  antiquity.  The  discoloration  of  ages 
had  been  great.  Minute  fungi  overspread  the  whole 
exterior,  hanging  in  a  fine  tangled  web-work  from  the 
eaves.  Yet  all  this  was  apart  from  any  extraordi 
nary  dilapidation.  No  portion  of  the  masonry  had 
fallen ;  and  there  appeared  to  be  a  wild  inconsistency 
between  its  still  perfect  adaptation  of  parts  and  the 
crumbling  condition  of  the  individual  stones.  In  this 
there  was  much  that  reminded  me  of  the  specious  to 
tality  of  old  wood-work  which  has  rotted  for  long  years 
in  some  neglected  vault,  with  no  disturbance  from  the 
breath  of  the  external  air.  Beyond  this  indication  of 
extensive  decay,  however,  the  fabric  gave  little  token 
of  instability.  Perhaps  the  eye  of  a  scrutinizing  ob 
server  might  have  discovered  a  barely  perceptible  fis 
sure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building  in 
front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a  zigzag  direction, 
until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters  of  the  tarn. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    365 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  causeway 
to  the  house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse, 
and  I  entered  the  Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A 
valet,  of  stealthy  step,  thence  conducted  me  in  silence 
through  many  dark  and  intricate  passages  in  my 
progress  to  the  studio  of  his  master.  Much  that  I 
encountered  on  the  way  contributed,  I  know  not  how, 
to  heighten  the  vague  sentiments  of  which  I  have  al 
ready  spoken.  While  the  objects  around  me  —  while 
the  carvings  of  the  ceiling,  the  sombre  tapestries  of 
the  walls,  the  ebon  blackness  of  the  floors,  and  the 
phantasmagoric 1  armorial  trophies  which  rattled  as  I 
strode,  were  but  matters  to  which,  or  to  such  as  which, 
I  had  been  accustomed  from  my  infancy,  —  while  I 
hesitated  not  to  acknowledge  how  familiar  was  all 
this,  I  still  wondered  to  find  how  unfamiliar  were 
the  fancies  which  ordinary  images  were  stirring  up. 
On  one  of  the  staircases  I  met  the  physician  of  the 
family.  His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a  min 
gled  expression  of  low  cunning  and  perplexity.  He 
accosted  me  with  trepidation  and  passed  on.  The 
valet  now  threw  open  a  door  and  ushered  me  into  the 
presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large 
and  lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and 
pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the  black 
oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inaccessible  from  within. 
Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned  light  made  their  way 
through  the  trellised  panes,  and  served  to  render 
sufficiently  distinct  the  more  prominent  objects  around  ; 
the  eye,  however,  struggled  in  vain  to  reach  the  re 
moter  angles  of  the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the 
vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung 
1  This  is  one  of  Foe's  favorite  words. 


366  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

upon  the  walls.  The  general  furniture  was  profuse, 
comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books  and 
musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to 
give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed 
an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and 
irredeemable  gloom  hung  over  and  pervaded  all.1 

Upon  my  entrance,  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on 
which  he  had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted 
me  with  a  vivacious  warmth  which  had  much  in  it, 
I  at  first  thought,  of  an  overdone  cordiality,  —  of  the 
constrained  effort  of  the  ennuye  man  of  the  world. 
A  glance,  however,  at  his  countenance,  convinced  me 
of  his  perfect  sincerity.  We  sat  down  ;  and  for  some 
moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I  gazed  upon  him  with 
a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of  awe.  Surely  man  had 
never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in  so  brief  a  period, 
as  had  Roderick  Usher !  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I 
could  bring  myself  to  admit  the  identity  of  the  wan 
being  before  me  with  the  companion  of  my  early  boy 
hood.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been  at  all 
times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of  complexion ; 
an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  comparison  ; 
lips  somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  surpass 
ingly  beautiful  curve ;  a  nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew 
model,2  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in  sim 
ilar  formations;  a  finely-moulded  chin,  speaking,  in 
its  want  of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energy  ; 

1  Poe  does  not  here  indulge  himself,  as  in  Ligeia  and  the 
Red  Death,  in  describing  a  bizarre  luxury  which  he  had  certainly 
had  little  opportunity  of  enjoying  in  a  concrete   fashion.     He 
has  been  working  up  to  a  description  of  Usher,  and  to  that,  like 
a  true  artist,  he  devotes  his  powers. 

2  "  I  looked  at  the  delicate  outlines  of  the  nose,  and  nowhere 
but  in  the  graceful  medallions  of  the  Hebrews  had  I  beheld  a 
similar  perfection."     Ligeia. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    367 

hair  of  a  more  than  web-like  softness  and  tenuity,  — 
these  features,  with  an  inordinate  expansion  above  the 
regions  of  the  temple,  made  up  altogether  a  counte 
nance  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  And  now  in  the 
mere  exaggeration  of  the  prevailing  character  of  these 
features,  and  of  the  expression  they  were  wont  to  con 
vey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I  doubted  to  whom  I 
spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pallor  of  the  skin,  and  the 
now  miraculous  lustre  of  the  eye,  above  all  things 
startled  and  even  awed  me.  The  silken  hair,  too,  had 
been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in  its  wild 
gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about  the 
face,  I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  ara 
besque  expression  with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck 
with  an  incoherence,  an  inconsistency ;  and  I  soon 
found  this  to  arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile 
struggles  to  overcome  an  habitual  trepidancy,  an  ex 
cessive  nervous  agitation.  For  something  of  this 
nature  I  had  indeed  been  prepared,  no  less  by  his 
letter  than  by  reminiscences  of  certain  boyish  traits, 
and  by  conclusions  deduced  from  his  peculiar  physical 
conformation  and  temperament.  His  action  was  alter 
nately  vivacious  and  sullen.  His  voice  varied  rapidly 
from  a  tremulous  indecision  (when  the  animal  spirits 
seemed  utterly  in  abeyance)  to  that  species  of  ener 
getic  concision  —  that  abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  and 
hollow  -  sounding  enunciation,  that  leaden,  self-bal 
anced,  and  perfectly  modulated  guttural  utterance  — 
which  may  be  observed  in  the  lost  drunkard,  or  the 
irreclaimable  eater  of  opium,  during  the  periods  of  his 
most  intense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit, 


368  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

of  his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace  he 
expected  me  to  afford  him.  He  entered  at  some 
length  into  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his 
malady.  It  was,  he  said,  a  constitutional  and  a  family 
evil,  and  one  for  which  he  despaired  to  find  a  remedy, 
—  a  mere  nervous  affection,  he  immediately  added, 
which  would  undoubtedly  soon  pass  off.  It  displayed 
itself  in  a  host  of  unnatural  sensations.  Some  of 
these,  as  he  detailed  them,  interested  and  bewildered 
me ;  although,  perhaps,  the  terms  and  the  general 
manner  of  the  narration  had  their  weight.  He  suf 
fered  much  from  a  morbid  acuteness  of  the  senses ; 
the  most  insipid  food  was  alone  endurable  ;  he  could 
wear  only  garments  of  certain  texture  ;  the  odors  of 
all  flowers  were  oppressive ;  his  eyes  were  tortured 
by  even  a  faint  light ;  and  there  were  but  peculiar 
sounds,  and  these  from  stringed  instruments,  which 
did  not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a 
bounden1  slave.  "I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  "I  must 
perish  in  this  deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not 
otherwise,  shall  I  be  lost.  I  dread  the  events  of  the 
future,  not  in  themselves,  but  in  their  results.  I 
shudder  at  the  thought  of  any,  even  the  most  trivial, 
incident,  which  may  operate  upon  this  intolerable 
agitation  of  soul.  I  have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence  of 
danger,  except  in  its  absolute  effect,  —  in  terror.  In 
this  unnerved,  in  this  pitiable  condition,  I  feel  that 
the  period  will  sooner  or  later  arrive  when  I  must 
abandon  life  and  reason  together  in  some  struggle 
with  the  grim  phantasm,  FEAK." 

I    learned    moreover    at    intervals,    and    through 

1  This  form  is  now  archaic,  save  in  the  familiar  phrase 
K  bounden  duty."  Poe  uses  the  same  expression  in  Ligeia. 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE   OF  USHER.  369 

broken  and  equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature 
of  his  mental  condition.  He  was  enchained  by  certain 
superstitious  impressions  in  regard  to  the  dwelling 
which  he  tenanted,  and  whence  for  many  years  he 
had  never  ventured  forth,  in  regard  to  an  influence 
whose  supposititious  force  was  conveyed  in  terms  too 
shadowy  here  to  be  restated,  —  an  influence  which 
some  peculiarities  in  the  mere  form  and  substance  of 
his  family  mansion  had,  by  dint  of  long  sufferance, 
he  said,  obtained  over  his  spirit ;  an  effect  which  the 
physique  of  the  gray  walls  and  turrets,  and  of  the  dim 
tarn  into  which  they  all  looked  down,  had  at  length 
brought  about  upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation, 
that  much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted 
him  could  be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and  far  more 
palpable  origin,  —  to  the  severe  and  long-continued 
illness,  indeed  to  the  evidently  approaching  dissolu 
tion,  of  a  tenderly  beloved  sister,  his  sole  companion 
for  long  years,  his  last  and  only  relative  on  earth. 
"  Her  decease,"  he  said,  with  a  bitterness  which  I  can 
never  forget,  "  would  leave  him  (him,  the  hopeless  and 
the  frail)  the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of  the  Ushers." 
While  he  spoke,  the  lady  Madeline 1  (for  so  was  she 
called)  passed  slowly  through  a  remote  portion  of  the 
apartment,  and,  without  having  noticed  my  presence, 
disappeared.  I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonish 
ment  not  unmingled  with  dread,  and  yet  I  found  it 

1  The  student  will  find  it  interesting  to  make  a  comparative 
examination  of  Poe's  shadowy,  high-born  heroines  with  their 
superlative,  uncommon  characteristics  of  mind  and  body,  and 
their  melodious,  unfamiliar  names,  —  of  his  Madelines,  and  Li- 
geias,  and  Berenices,  and  Eleonoras,  and  Morellas,  and  Lenores. 
All  seem  to  have  sprung  from  a  single  prototype. 


370  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

impossible  to  account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensa- 
tion  of  stupor  oppressed  me,  as  my  eyes  followed 
her  retreating  steps.  When  a  door,  at  length,  closed 
upon  her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively  and  eagerly 
the  countenance  of  the  brother ;  but  he  had  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only l  perceive  that 
a  far  more  than  ordinary  wanness  had  overspread  the 
emaciated  fingers  through  which  trickled  many  pas 
sionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baf 
fled  the  skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy, 
a  gradual  wasting  away  of  the  person,  and  frequent 
although  transient  affections  of  a  partially  cataleptical 
character,  were  the  unusual  diagnosis.  Hitherto  she 
had  steadily  borne  up  against  the  pressure  of  her 
malady,  and  had  not  betaken  herself  finally  to  bed ; 
but,  on  the  closing-in  of  the  evening  of  my  arrival 
at  the  house,  she  succumbed  (as  her  brother  told  me 
at  night  with  inexpressible  agitation)  to  the  prostrat 
ing  power  of  the  destroyer ;  and  I  learned  that  the 
glimpse  I  had  obtained  of  her  person  would  thus  prob 
ably  be  the  last  I  should  obtain,  —  that  the  lady,  at 
least  while  living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no  more. 

For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  unmentioned 
by  either  Usher  or  myself ;  and  during  this  period  I 
was  busied  in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate  the  mel 
ancholy  of  my  friend.  We  painted  and  read  together  ; 
or  I  listened,  as  if  in  a  dream,  to  the  wild  improvisa 
tions  of  his  speaking  guitar.  And  thus,  as  a  closer 
and  still  closer  intimacy  admitted  me  more  unre 
servedly  into  the  recesses  of  his  spirit,  the  more 
bitterly  did  I  perceive  the  futility  of  all  attempt  at 
cheering  a  mind  from  which  darkness,  as  if  an  inherent 
1  Is  this  adverb  properly  placed  ? 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    371 

positive  quality,  poured  forth  upon  all  objects  of  the 
moral  and  physical  universe,  in  one  unceasing  radia 
tion  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many 
solemn  hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of 
the  House  of  Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  at 
tempt  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  exact  character  of  the 
studies,  or  of  the  occupations,  in  which  he  involved 
me,  or  led  me  the  way.  An  excited  and  highly  dis 
tempered  ideality  threw  a  sulphureous  lustre  over  all. 
His  long,  improvised  dirges  will  ring  forever  in  my 
ears.  Among  other  things,  I  hold  painfully  in  mind 
a  certain  singular  perversion  and  amplification  of  the 
wild  air  of  the  last  waltz  of  Von  Weber.1  From  the 
paintings  over  which  his  elaborate  fancy  brooded,  and 
which  grew,  touch  by  touch,  into  vaguenesses  at  which 
I  shuddered  the  more  thrillingly  because  I  shuddered 
knowing  not  why,  —  from  these  paintings  (vivid  as 
their  images  now  are  before  me)  I  would  in  vain 
endeavor  to  educe  more  than  a  small  portion  which 
should  lie  within  the  compass  of  merely  written  words. 
By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the  nakedness  of  his  de 
signs,  he  arrested  and  overawed  attention.  If  ever 
mortal  painted  an  idea,  that  mortal  was  Roderick 
Usher.  For  me  at  least,  in  the  circumstances  then 
surrounding  me,  there  arose,  out  of  the  pure  abstrac 
tions  which  the  hypochondriac  contrived  to  throw 
upon  his  canvas,  an  intensity  of  intolerable  awe,  no 
shadow  of  which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  certainly  glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries  of 
Fuseli.2 

1  Karl  Maria,  Baron  von  Weber  (1786-1826),  the  celebrated 
German  composer. 

2  Henry    Fuseli   (1741-1825)   born  in  Zurich  as  Heinrich 


372  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my 
friend,  partaking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  ab 
straction,  may  be  shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in 
words.  A  small  picture  presented  the  interior  of  an 
immensely  long  and  rectangular  vault  or  tunnel,  with 
low  walls,  smooth,  white,  and  without  interruption  or 
device.  Certain  accessory  points  of  the  design  served 
well  to  convey  the  idea  that  this  excavation  lay  at  an 
exceeding  depth  below  the  surface  of  the  earth.  No 
outlet  was  observed  in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent, 
and  no  torch,  or  other  artificial  source  of  light,  was 
discernible  ;  yet  a  flood  of  intense  rays  rolled  through 
out,  and  bathed  the  whole  in  a  ghastly  and  inappro 
priate  splendor. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  tho 
auditory  nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable 
to  the  sufferer,  with  the  exception  of  certain  effects  of 
stringed  instruments.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  narrow 
limits  to  which  he  thus  confined  himself  upon  the 
guitar,  which  gave  birth,  in  great  measure,  to  the 
fantastic  character  of  his  performances.  But  the  fer 
vid  facility  of  his  impromptus  could  not  be  so  ac 
counted  for.  They  must  have  been,  and  were,  in  the 
notes  as  well  as  in  the  words  of  his  wild  fantasias 
(for  he  not  unfrequently  accompanied  himself  with 
rhymed  verbal  improvisations),  the  result  of  that 
intense  mental  collectedness  and  concentration  to 
which  I  have  previously  alluded  as  observable  only  in 
particular  moments  of  the  highest  artificial  excitement. 
The  words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have  easily 
remembered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly  im 
pressed  with  it  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under  or 

Fuessly,  —  an  artist  of  great  power,  and  professor  of  painting  at 
the  Royal  Academy  in  London. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    373 

mystic  current  of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  per 
ceived,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  full  consciousness,  on 
the  part  of  Usher,  of  the  tottering  of  his  lofty  reason 
upon  her  throne.  The  verses,  which  were  entitled 
"  The  Haunted  Palace,"  1  ran  very  nearly,  if  not  ac 
curately,  thus : — 


In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there ; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 


Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

m. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 

Spirits  moving  musically 
To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 

1  These  verses  were  first  published  in  the  Baltimore  Museum 
for  April,  1839.  They  rank  among  the  best  of  Foe's  poems,  and 
fit  their  prose  setting  so  well  that,  as  Mr.  Stedman  has  remarked, 
it  might  almost  seem  that  the  tale  was  written  to  set  off  the 
poem.  Some  critics  have  seen  in  the  verses  a  symbolical  descrip 
tion  of  the  ravages  wrought  by  drink  in  the  poet's  own  char 
acter. 


374  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Hound  about  a  throne,  where  sitting, 

Porphyrogene,1 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


IV. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing1, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king.2 


But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate  !) 
And,  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

VI. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  3  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody ; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

1  That  is,  born  in  the  purple,  —  of  royal  birth. 

2  "  When  (like  committed  linnets)  I 
With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 
And  glories  of  my  King." 

LOVELACE,  To  Altheafrom  Prison. 
8  Note  the  archaic,  and  so  poetic,  form  of  the  participle. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    375 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this 
ballad  led  us  into  a  train  of  thought,  wherein  there 
became  manifest  an  opinion  of  Usher's  which  I  men 
tion,  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  novelty  (for  other 
men l  have  thought  thus)  as  on  account  of  the  perti 
nacity  with  which  he  maintained  it.  This  opinion,  in 
its  general  form,  was  that  of  the  sentience  of  all  vege 
table  things.  But  in  his  disordered  fancy,  the  idea 
had  assumed  a  more  daring  character,  and  trespassed, 
under  certain  conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of  inor- 
ganization.2  I  lack  words  to  express  the  full  extent 
or  the  earnest  abandon  of  his  persuasion.  The  belief, 
however,  was  connected  (as  I  have  previously  hinted) 
with  the  gray  stones  of  the  home  of  his  forefathers. 
The  conditions  of  the  sentience  had  been  here,  he 
imagined,  fulfilled  in  the  method  of  collocation  of 
these  stones, — in  the  order  of  their  arrangement,  as 
well  as  in  that  of  the  many  fungi  which  overspread 
them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees  which  stood  around ; 
above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  endurance  of  this 
arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in  the  still 
waters  of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence  of 
the  sentience  —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said  (and  I  here 

1  Watson,  Dr.  Percival,  Spallanzani,  and  especially  the  Bishop 
ofLlandaff.  —  See  Chemical  Essays,  vol.  v.      [Of   the   authors 
mentioned  by  Poe,  Richard  Watson  (1737-1816)  was  the  cele 
brated  Bishop  of  Llandaff,  the  liberal  statesman,  the  opponent 
of  Tom  Paine,  who  early  in  life  was  made  professor  of  chemis 
try  at  Cambridge,  although  he  knew  nothing  of  the  subject, 
and  succeeded  in   writing   very   popularly  about  the  science  ; 
Dr.  James  Gates  Percival  (1795-1856)  was  an  American  poet 
and  scientist  of  great  versatility ;  and  Lazaro  Spallanzani  (1729- 
1799)  was  a  noted  traveler,  collector,  teacher,  and  writer  on 
many  scientific  subjects.] 

2  That  is,  the  mineral  kingdom. 


376  EDGAR    ALLAN  POE. 

started  as  he  spoke),  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  con 
densation  of  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  about  the 
waters  and  the  walls.  The  result  was  discoverable, 
he  added,  in  that  silent  yet  importunate  and  terrible 
influence  which  for  centuries  had  moulded  the  desti 
nies  of  his  family,  and  which  made  him  what  I  now 
saw  him,  —  what  he  was.  Such  opinions  need  no  com 
ment,  and  I  will  make  none. 

Our  books  —  the  books  which  for  years  had  formed 
no  small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid 
—  were,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with 
this  character  of  phantasm.  We  pored  together  over 
such  works  as  the  Ververt  and  Chartreuse  of  Gresset ; 
the  Belphegor  of  Machiavelli ;  the  Heaven  and  Hell 
of  Swedenborg ;  the  Subterranean  Voyage  of  Nicholas 
Klimm  by  Holberg ;  the  Chiromancy  of  Robert  Flud, 
of  Jean  D'Indagine,  and  of  De  la  Chambre ;  the 
Journey  into  the  Blue  Distance  of  Tieck ;  and  the 
City  of  the  Sun  of  Campanella.  One  favorite  volume 
was  a  small  octavo  edition  of  the  Directorium  Inquisi- 
torum,  by  the  Dominican  Eymeric  de  Gironne  ;  and 
there  were  passages  in  Pomponius  Mela,  about  the  old 
African  Satyrs  and  ^Egipans,  over  which  Usher  would 
sit  dreaming  for  hours.  His  chief  delight,  however, 
was  found  in  the  perusal  of  an  exceedingly  rare  and 
curious  book  in  quarto  Gothic,  —  the  manual  of  a  for 
gotten  church,  —  the  Vigilice  Mortuorum  secundum 
Chorum  Ecclesice  Maguntince.1 

1  Of  the  books  mentioned  by  Poe,  some  at  least  of  which  he 
probably  never  saw,  as  they  are  inappropriate  to  his  purposes, 
a  brief  account  will  be  sufficient.  Ver-vert  and  Ma  Chartreuse 
are  two  poems  by  Jean  Baptiste  Gresset  (1709-77),  the  former 
of  which  gives  an  amusing  account  of  the  adventures  of  a  pro 
fane  parrot  in  a  convent  of  nuns,  which  brought  upon  the  author 
the  censure  of  the  church.  The  Belfagor  of  the  celebrated  states- 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    377 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this 
work,  and  of  its  probable  influence  on  the  hypochon 
driac,  when  one  evening,  having  informed  me  ab 
ruptly  that  the  lady  Madeline  was  no  more,  he  stated 
his  intention  of  preserving  her  corpse  for  a  fortnight, 

man  and  writer  Niccolo  Machiavelli  (1469-1527)  is  a  satire 
concerning  marriage,  the  Devil  being  forced  to  admit  that  hell  is 
preferable  to  his  wife's  society.  The  Heaven  and  Hell  of  Email- 
uel  Swedenborg  (1688-1772),  the  great  Swedish  mystic  and 
founder  of  the  sect  that  bears  his  name,  consists  of  extracts  from 
his  more  important  work,  the  Arcana  Codestia.  The  Nicolai 
Klimmi  Iter  Subterraneum  was  a  widely  celebrated  poem  by  the 
great  poet  and  scholar,  Ludwig  Holberg  (born  at  Bergen  in  Nor 
way,  1684,  died  at  Copenhagen,  1754),  who  is  preeminent  among 
the  earlier  Scandinavian  writers  for  his  genius  and  his  erudition. 
Chiromancy  means  divination  by  means  of  the  hand  (palmistry 
applied  to  the  future) ;  and  Poe  refers  to  works  on  physiognomy 
(hardly,  it  would  seem,  to  specific  books  on  chiromancy)  by  the 
English  mystic,  Robert  Fludd  (1574-1637),  and  by  two  conti 
nental  writers  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  respec 
tively.  The  work  of  Ludwig  Tieck  (1773-1853),  the  great 
German  romanticist  to  which  Poe  refers,  may  be  found  in  his 
Works  (1852-54)  vol.  viii.  The  Cicitas  Solis  is  a  celebrated 
sketch  of  an  ideal  state  (cf .  Plato's  Republic  and  More's  Utopia) 
by  the  great  Italian  philosopher,  Tomaso  Campanella  (1568- 
1639),  whom  the  Inquisition  persecuted  with  horrible  severity. 
The  work  cited,  with  inverted  title,  with  regard  to  this  terrible 
institution,  is  a  minute  account  of  its  methods  by  N.  Eymerich, 
inquisitor-general  for  Castile  in  1356.  Pomponius  Mela  was  a 
Spaniard  who  wrote  a  famous  work  on  geography  (De  Situ  Or- 
bis)  in  the  first  century  A.  D.  (^Egipan,  by  the  way,  is  really 
nothing  but  an  epithet  applied  to  Pan  because  he  guarded  goats.) 
The  Vigilice  Mortuorum  has  not  been  discovered  by  Professor 
Woodberry  under  the  title  Poe  gives  at  length,  but  books  of  a 
similar  character  exist  which  probably  supplied  Poe  with  a  hint 
for  his  own  title.  The  expression  "  quarto  Gothic  "  means  that 
the  book  was  a  quarto  (i.  e.  one  in  which  the  leaf  is  a  fourth 
part  of  a  sheet),  and  printed  in  an  early  form  of  black- faced 
and  pointed  letters.  (The  epithet  "  Gothic "  can  hardly  have 
its  liturgic  use  here.) 


378  EDGAR    ALLAN  POE. 

(previously  to  its  final  interment)  in  one  of  the  nu 
merous  vaults  within  the  main  walls  of  the  building. 
The  worldly  reason,  however,  assigned  for  this  singular 
proceeding  was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to 
dispute.  The  brother  had  been  led  to  his  resolution 
(so  he  told  me)  by  consideration  of  the  unusual  char 
acter  of  the  malady  of  the  deceased,  of  certain  ob 
trusive  and  eager  inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  medi 
cal  men,  and  of  the  remote  and  exposed  situation  of 
the  burial-ground  of  the  family.  I  will  not  deny  that 
when  I  called  to  mind  the  sinister  countenance  of  the 
person  whom  I  met  upon  the  staircase,  on  the  day  of 
my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no  desire  to  oppose 
what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless,  and  by  no 
means  an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him 
in  the  arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment. 
The  body  having  been  encoffined,  we  two  alone  bore 
it  to  its  rest.  The  vault  in  which  we  placed  it  (and 
which  had  been  so  long  unopened  that  our  torches, 
half  smothered  in  its  oppressive  atmosphere,  gave  us 
little  opportunity  for  investigation)  was  small,  damp, 
and  entirely  without  means  of  admission  for  light ; 
lying,  at  great  depth,  immediately  beneath  that  por 
tion  of  the  building  in  which  was  my  own  sleeping 
apartment.  It  had  been  used  apparently,  in  remote 
feudal  times,  for  the  worst  purposes  of  a  donjon-keep, 
and  in  later  days  as  a  place  of  deposit  for  powder, 
or  some  other  highly  combustible  substance,  as  a 
portion  of  its  floor,  and  the  whole  interior  of  a  long 
archway  through  which  we  reached  it,  were  carefully 
sheathed  with  copper.  The  door,  of  massive  iron,  had 
been  also  similarly  protected.  Its  immense  weight 
caused  an  unusually  sharp  grating  sound  as  it  moved 
upon  its  hinges. 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    379 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  tres- 
sels  within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned 
aside  the  yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  tenant.  A  striking  similitude 
between  the  brother  and  sister  now  first  arrested  my 
attention ;  and  Usher,  divining,  perhaps,  my  thoughts, 
murmured  out  some  few  words  from  which  I  learned 
that  the  deceased  and  himself  had  been  twins,  and 
that  sympathies  of  a  scarcely  intelligible  nature  had 
always  existed  between  them.  Our  glances,  however, 
rested  not  long  upon  the  dead,  for  we  could  not 
regard  her  unawed.  The  disease  which  had  thus  en 
tombed  the  lady  in  the  maturity  of  youth,  had  left,  as 
usual  in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly  cataleptical  charac 
ter,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon  the  bosom  and 
the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering  smile  upon 
the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We  replaced  and 
screwed  down  the  lid,  and  having  secured  the  door  of 
iron,  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  the  scarcely  less 
gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  portion  of  the  house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed, 
an  observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the 
mental  disorder  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  man 
ner  had  vanished.  His  ordinary  occupations  were 
neglected  or  forgotten.  He  roamed  from  chamber  to 
chamber  with  hurried,  unequal,  and  objectless  step. 
The  pallor  of  his  countenance  had  assumed,  if  possi 
ble,  a  more  ghastly  hue,  but  the  luminousness  of  his 
eye  had  utterly  gone  out.  The  once  occasional  hus- 
kiness  of  his  tone  was  heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremu 
lous  quaver,  as  if  of  extreme  terror,  habitually  char 
acterized  his  utterance.  There  were  times,  indeed, 
when  I  thought  his  unceasingly  agitated  mind  was 
laboring  with  some  oppressive  secret,  to  divulge 


380  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

which  he  struggled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At 
times,  again,  I  was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere 
inexplicable  vagaries  of  madness,  for  I  beheld  him 
gazing  upon  vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of 
the  profoundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  ima 
ginary  sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition 
terrified  —  that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon 
me,  by  slow  yet  certain  degrees,  the  wild  influences  of 
his  own  fantastic  yet  impressive  superstitions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the 
night  of  the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing 
of  the  lady  Madeline  within  the  donjon,1  that  I  ex 
perienced  the  full  power  of  such  feelings.  Sleep 
came  not  near  my  couch,  while  the  hours  waned  and 
waned  away.  I  struggled  to  reason  off  the  nervous 
ness  which  had  dominion  over  me.  I  endeavored  to 
believe  that  much  if  not  all  of  what  I  felt  was  due  to 
the  bewildering  influence  of  the  gloomy  furniture  of 
the  room,  —  of  the  dark  and  tattered  draperies  which, 
tortured  into  motion  by  the  breath  of  a  rising  tem 
pest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and  fro  upon  the  walls,  and 
rustled  uneasily  about  the  decorations  of  the  bed. 
But  my  efforts  were  fruitless.  An  irrepressible  tremor 
gradually  pervaded  my  frame ;  and  at  length  there 
sat  upon  my  very  heart  an  incubus  of  utterly  causeless 
alarm.  Shaking  this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a  struggle, 
I  uplifted  myself  upon  the  pillows,  and,  peering  ear 
nestly  within  the  intense  darkness  of  the  chamber, 
hearkened  —  I  know  not  why,  except  that  an  instinct 
ive  spirit  prompted  me  —  to  certain  low  and  indefinite 
sounds  which  came,  through  the  pauses  of  the  storm, 
at  long  intervals,  I  knew  not  whence.  Overpowered 

1  The  inner  stronghold  of  a  castle.  The  word  is  a  variant  of 
"  dungeon."  See  page  494,  line  27. 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    381 

by  an  intense  sentiment  of  horror,  unaccountable  yet 
unendurable,  I  threw  on  my  clothes  with  haste  (for  I 
felt  that  I  should  sleep  no  more  during  the  night), 
and  endeavored  to  arouse  myself  from  the  pitiable 
condition  into  which  I  had  fallen,  by  pacing  rapidly 
to  and  fro  through  the  apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when  a 
light  step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  atten 
tion.  I  presently  recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In 
an  instant  afterward  he  rapped  with  a  gentle  touch  at 
my  door,  and  entered,  bearing  a  lamp.  His  counte 
nance  was,  as  usual,  cadaverously  wan  —  but,  more 
over,  there  was  a  species  of  mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes,  — 
an  evidently  restrained  hysteria  in  his  whole  demeanor. 
His  air  appalled  me  —  but  anything  was  preferable  to 
the  solitude  which  I  had  so  long  endured,  and  I  even 
welcomed  his  presence  as  a  relief. 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  it  ? "  he  said  abruptly, 
after  having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in 
silence,  —  "  you  have  not  then  seen  it  ?  —  but,  stay ! 
you  shall."  Thus  speaking,  and  having  carefully 
shaded  his  lamp,  he  hurried  to  one  of  the  casements, 
and  threw  it  freely  open  to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly 
lifted  us  from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestu 
ous  yet  sternly  beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singu 
lar  in  its  terror  and  its  beauty.  A  whirlwind  had 
apparently  collected  its  force  in  our  vicinity,  for  there 
were  frequent  and  violent  alterations  in  the  direction 
of  the  wind ;  and  the  exceeding  density  of  the  clouds 
(which  hung  so  low  as  to  press  upon  the  turrets  of  the 
house)  did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  the  life-like 
velocity  with  which  they  flew  careering  from  all  points 
against  each  other,  without  passing  away  into  the 


382  EDGAR    ALLAN  POE. 

distance.  I  say  that  even  their  exceeding  density 
did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  this ;  yet  we  had  no 
glimpse  of  the  moon  or  stars,  nor  was  there  any  flash 
ing  forth  of  the  lightning.  But  the  under  surfaces  of 
the  huge  masses  of  agitated  vapor,  as  well  as  all  ter 
restrial  objects  immediately  around  us,  were  glowing 
in  the  unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and  dis 
tinctly  visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about 
and  enshrouded  the  mansion. 

"You  must  not  —  you  shall  not  behold  this!"  said 
I  shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him  with  a  gentle 
violence  from  the  window  to  a  seat.  "  These  appear 
ances,  which  bewilder  you,  are  merely  electrical  phe 
nomena  not  uncommon  —  or  it  may  be  that  they  have 
their  ghastly  origin  in  the  rank  miasma  of  the  tarn. 
Let  us  close  this  casement ;  the  air  is  chilling  and 
dangerous  to  your  frame.  Here  is  one  of  your  favor 
ite  romances.  I  will  read,  and  you  shall  listen;  — 
and  so  we  will  pass  away  this  terrible  night  together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was 
the  "  Mad  Trist "  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning ; l  but  I 
had  called  it  a  favorite  of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest 
than  in  earnest ;  for,  in  truth,  there  is  little  in  its 
uncouth  and  unimaginative  prolixity  which  could  have 
had  interest  for  the  lofty  and  spiritual  ideality  of  my 
friend.  It  was,  however,  the  only  book  immediately 
at  hand ;  and  I .  indulged  a  vague  hope  that  the  ex 
citement  which  now  agitated  the  hypochondriac  might 
find  relief  (for  the  history  of  mental  disorder  is  full 
of  similar  anomalies)  even  in  the  extremeness  of  the 
folly  which  I  should  read.  Could  I  have  judged, 
indeed,  by  the  wild,  overstrained  air  of  vivacity  with 

1  Professor  Woodberry  has  not  found  this  book,  and  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  Foe  invented  both  the  title  and  the  extracts. 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    383 

which  he  hearkened,  or  apparently  hearkened,  to  the 
words  of  the  tale,  I  might  well  have  congratulated 
myself  upon  the  success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the 
story  where  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having 
sought  in  vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  hermit,  proceeds  to  make  good  an  entrance 
by  force.  Here,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  words  of 
the  narrative  run  thus  :  — 

"  And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty 
heart,  and  who  was  now  mighty  withal  on  account  of 
the  powerfulness  of  the  wine  which  he  had  drunken, 
waited  no  longer  to  hold  parley  with  the  hermit,  who, 
in  sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and  malicef  ul  turn,  but, 
feeling  the  rain  upon  his  shoulders,  and  fearing  the 
rising  of  the  tempest,  uplifted  his  mace  outright,  and 
with  blows  made  quickly  room  in  the  plankings  of  the 
door  for  his  gauntleted  hand ;  and  now,  pulling  there 
with  sturdily,  he  so  cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore  all 
asunder,  that  the  noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow-sounding 
wood  alarumed  l  and  reverberated  throughout  the  for 
est." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and 
for  a  moment  paused;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (al 
though  I  at  once  concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had 
deceived  me)  —  it  appeared  to  me  that  from  some 
very  remote  portion  of  the  mansion  there  came,  indis 
tinctly,  to  my  ears,  what  might  have  been  in  its  exact 
similarity  of  character  the  echo  (but  a  stifled  and 
dull  one  certainly)  of  the  very  cracking  and  ripping 
sound  which  Sir  Launcelot  had  so  particularly  de 
scribed.  It  was,  beyond  doubt,  the  coincidence  alone 

1  That  is,  alarmed.  The  whole  tone  of  the  passage  suggests  an 
intentional  heightening  of  what  was  at  best  an  absurd  style. 


384  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

which  had  arrested  my  attention ;  for,  amid  the  rat 
tling  of  the  sashes  of  the  casements,  and  the  ordinary 
commingled  noises  of  the  still  increasing  storm,  the 
sound,  in  itself,  had  nothing,  surely,  which  should 
have  interested  or  disturbed  me.  I  continued  the 
story :  — 

"  But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering 
within  the  door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  per 
ceive  no  signal  of  the  maliceful  hermit ;  but,  in  the 
stead  thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly  and  prodigious  de 
meanor,  and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate  in  guard 
before  a  palace  of  gold  with  a  floor  of  silver ;  and 
upon  the  wall  there  hung  a  shield  of  shining  brass 
with  this  legend  enwritten  :  — 

Who  entereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin ; 
Who  slayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win. 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the 
head  of  the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave 
up  his  pesty  breath,  with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh, 
and  withal  so  piercing,  that  Ethelred  had  fain l  to  close 
his  ears  with  his  hands  against  the  dreadful  noise  of 
it,  the  like  whereof  was  never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feel 
ing  of  wild  amazement,  for  there  could  be  no  doubt 
whatever  that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear 
(although  from  what  direction  it  proceeded  I  found 
it  impossible  to  say)  a  low  and  apparently  distant, 
but  harsh,  protracted,  and  most  unusual  screaming  or 
grating  sound,  —  the  exact  counterpart  of  what  my 
fancy  had  already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon's  un 
natural  shriek  as  described  by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence 
of  this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence, 
1  Generally  "  was  fain,"  i.  e.  was  glad,  or  content. 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   385 

by  a  thousand  conflicting  sensations,  in  which  wonder 
and  extreme  terror  were  predominant,  I  still  retained 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  avoid  exciting,  by  any 
observation,  the  sensitive  nervousness  of  my  com 
panion.  I  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  had 
noticed  the  sounds  in  question ;  although,  assuredly, 
a  strange  alteration  had  during  the  last  few  minutes 
taken  place  in  his  demeanor.  From  a  position  front 
ing  my  own,  he  had  gradually  brought  round  his  chair, 
so  as  to  sit  with  his  face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber  5 
and  thus  I  could  but  partially  perceive  his  features, 
although  I  saw  that  his  lips  trembled  as  if  he  were 
murmuring  inaudibly.  His  head  had  dropped  upon 
his  breast ;  yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  from 
the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye  as  I  caught  a 
glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of  his  body,  too, 
was  at  variance  with  this  idea,  for  he  rocked  from 
side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and  uniform 
sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I 
resumed  the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus 
proceeded :  — 

"  And  now  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the 
terrible  fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the 
brazen  shield,  and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchant 
ment  which  was  upon  it,  removed  the  carcass  from  out 
of  the  way  before  him,  and  approached  valorously 
over  the  silver  pavement  of  the  castle  to  where  the 
shield  was  upon  the  wall ;  which  in  sooth  tarried  not 
for  his  full  coming,  but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the 
silver  floor,  with  a  mighty  great  and  terrible  ringing 
sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips  than 
—  as  if  a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment, 
fallen  heavily  upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware 


386  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

of  a  distinct,  hollow,  metallic,  and  clangorous  yet 
apparently  muffled  reverberation.  Completely  un 
nerved,  I  leaped  to  my  feet ;  but  the  measured  rock 
ing  movement  of  Usher  was  undisturbed.  I  rushed 
to  the  chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent 
fixedly  before  him,  and  throughout  his  whole  counte 
nance  there  reigned  a  stony  rigidity.  But,  as  I  placed 
my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  there  came  a  strong 
shudder  over  his  whole  person ;  a  sickly  smile  quiv 
ered  about  his  lips ;  and  I  saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low, 
hurried,  and  gibbering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious  of 
my  presence.  Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length 
drank  in  the  hideous  import  of  his  words. 

"  Not  hear  it  ?  —  yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it. 
Long  —  long  -<—  long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours, 
many  days,  have  I  heard  it,  yet  I  dared  not  —  oh, 
pity  me,  miserable  wretch  that  I  am  !  —  I  dared  not 
—  I  dared  not  speak  I  We  have  put  her  living  in  the 
tomb  !  1  Said  I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute  ?  I 
now  tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first  feeble  movements  in 
the  hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them  —  many,  many  days 
ago  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  /  dared  not  speak !  And 
now  —  to-night  —  Ethelred  —  ha  !  ha  !  —  the  break 
ing  of  the  hermit's  door,  and  the  death-cry  of  the 
dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield !  —  say,  rather, 
the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of  the  iron 
hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her  struggles  within  the 
coppered  archway  of  the  vault !  Oh,  whither  shall  I 
fly  ?  Will  she  not  be  here  anon  ?  Is  she  not  hurry 
ing  to  upbraid  me  for  my  haste  ?  Have  I  not  heard 

1  Poe  was  morbidly  interested  in  the  subject  of  supposed 
deaths  and  premature  burials.  He  introduces  it,  for  example,  in 
the  present  tale,  in  Ligeia,  in  Premature  Burial,  and  in  the  ex 
travaganza,  Loss  of  Breath. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    387 

her  footstep  on  the  stair  ?  Do  I  not  distinguish  that 
heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her  heart  ?  Madman  1 " 
—  here  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet,  and  shrieked 
out  his  syllables,  as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving  up 
his  soul  —  "  Madman  !  I  tell  you  that  she  now  stands 
without  the  door  !  " 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance 
there  had  been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell,  the 
huge  antique  panels  to  which  the  speaker  pointed 
threw  slowly  back,  upon  the  instant,  their  ponderous 
and  ebony  jaws.  It  was  the  work  of  the  rushing 
gust  —  but  then  without  those  doors  there  did  stand 
the  lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of  the  lady  Madeline 
of  Usher !  There  was  blood  upon  her  white  robes, 
and  the  evidence  of  some  bitter  struggle  upon  every 
portion  of  her  emaciated  frame.  For  a  moment  she 
remained  trembling  and  reeling  to  and  fro  upon  the 
threshold  —  then,  with  a  low  moaning  cry,  fell  heavily 
inward  upon  the  person  of  her  brother,  and,  in  her 
violent  and  now  final  death  agonies,  bore  him  to  the 
floor  a  corpse,  and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had 
anticipated. 

From  that  chamber  and  from  that  mansion  I  fled 
aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath 
as  I  found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway.  Sud 
denly  there  shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light,  and  I 
turned  to  see  whence  a  gleam  so  unusual  could  have 
issued ;  for  the  vast  house  and  its  shadows  were 
alone  behind  me.  The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full, 
setting,  and  blood-red  imoon,  which  now  shone  vividly 
through  that  once  barely-discernible  fissure,  of  which 
I  have  before  spoken  as  extending  from  the  roof  of 
the  building,  in  a  zigzag  direction,  to  the  base.  While 
I  gazed,  this  fissure  rapidly  widened  —  there  came 


388  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind  —  the  entire  orb  of 
the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my  sight  —  my  brain 
reeled  as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder  — 
there  was  a  long,  tumultuous  shouting  sound  like  the 
voice  of  a  thousand  waters  —  and  the  deep  and  dank 
tarn  at  my  feet  closed  sullenly  and  silently  over  the 
fragments  of  the  "  House  of  Usher" 


PATRICK  HENRY. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

AMONG  the  group  of  men  whose  energy  and  patriotism 
produced  the  American  Revolution  Patrick  Henry  stood 
preeminent  for  one  special  gift.  In  ability  to  shape  the 
action  of  men  by  persuasive  and  effective  speech  he  was  far 
in  advance  of  his  contemporaries.  This  gift  was  rather  a 
mark  of  genius  than  the  result  of  severe  effort  toward 
attainment.  In  fact  there  was  nothing  in  Patrick  Henry's 
early  training  that  would  mark  him  as  likely  to  become  one 
of  the  great  figures'of  a  period  prolific  of  famous  men.  Born 
May  29, 1736,  in  Hanover  County,  Virginia,  he  enjoyed  few 
early  advantages.  His  father  was  a  good  man  and  a  man 
of  some  education.  His  mother  belonged  to  a  family  con 
sidered  somewhat  more  clever  than  the  average.  For  a  few 
years  he  attended  school  more  or  less  willingly,  and  learned 
a  little  Latin  and  Greek,  but  he  was  unpromising  as  a 
scholar,  and  whiled  away  a  good  deal  of  time  with  rod  and 
gun.  Between  the  ages  of  fifteen  and  twenty-four  he  made 
a  failure  of  everything  he  tried.  Although  he  was  a  poor 
storekeeper  and,  if  anything,  a  worse  farmer,  this  did  not 
deter  him  from  getting  married  at  eighteen,  and  thus  as 
suming  the  task  of  providing  for  two  before  he  had  demon 
strated  his  ability  to  provide  for  one. 

But  in  1760  a  change  occurred.  He  hastily  read  a 
little  law  in  a  very  brief  space  of  time,  and  went  down  to 
Williamsburg  to  get  admitted  to  the  bar.  At  first  he  did 


390  PATRICK  HENRY. 

not  make  a  favorable  impression ;  but  when  John  Ran 
dolph,  one  of  the  examiners,  affected  to  dissent  from  his 
opinions  to  draw  him  out,  he  defended  his  ideas  with  such 
force  and  vigor  as  to  make  evident  a  nature  which  had 
mastered  the  principles  of  close  observation  and  accurate 
reasoning.  Taking  the  candidate  to  his  office  and  opening 
some  of  his  books,  Randolph  said,  "  Behold  the  force  of 
natural  reason !  You  have  never  seen  these  books  before 
nor  this  principle  of  law ;  yet  you  are  right  and  I  am 
wrong.  .  .  .  Mr.  Henry,  if  your  industry  be  only  half  equal 
to  your  genius,  I  augur  that  you  will  do  well  and  become 
an  ornament  and  an  honor  to  your  profession." 

Henry  returned  to  his  father-in-law's  tavern  to  establish 
a  practice.  In  spite  of  stories  to  the  contrary,  it  seems  toler 
ably  certain  that  clients  soon  began  to  come  to  him,  and  that 
he  mended  the  deficiencies  in  his  earlier  legal  training.  At 
any  rate,  a  chance  came  to  demonstrate  whether  he  could 
win  a  hard  case.  A  dispute  arose  between  the  clergymen 
of  Virginia  and  the  vestrymen  over  the  payment  of  the 
parsons'  salaries.  The  Virginia  legislature  made  a  law 
against  the  parsons  ;  the  king  in  England  annulled  the  law 
as  unjust,  which  it  probably  was.  In  a  case  in  Louisa 
County,  when  the  court  had  decided  in  favor  of  the  parsons 
and  left  the  jury  to  determine  the  amount  of  the  payment, 
Henry  was  called  in  to  represent  the  vestrymen.  So  per 
suasive  was  his  speech  that  the  jury  quietly  brought  in  a 
verdict  of  only  one  penny  for  the  clergymen.  It  is  well  to 
note  here  that  while  Henry  was  perhaps  in  this  case  op 
posed  to  absolute  justice,  he  was  nevertheless  on  the  side 
which  stood  for  Virginia's  right  to  regulate  her  own  affairs 
without  the  interference  of  the  king.  In  fact,  he  main 
tained  this  so  stubbornly  that  some  called  out  "  Treason  !  " 

This  celebrated  case  brought  its  quick  reward  in  popu 
larity,  and  early  in  1765  Henry's  gaunt  figure  appeared  in 
the  House  of  Burgesses  at  the  colonial  capital,  as  the  mem 
ber  from  Louisa  County.  It  was  soon  seen  that  he  was 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  391 

a  man  of  remarkable  power.  He  struck  hard  blows,  and 
he  used  every  available  weapon  in  behalf  of  the  cause  he 
favored,  but  he  bore  no  malice  toward  his  opponents.  "When 
he  had  had  less  than  a  month  of  legislative  experience,  the 
great  question  of  the  Stamp  Act  came  before  the  house. 
Great  Britain  had  decided  to  test  the  question  of  taxing 
America.  What  should  America  do  about  it?  The  old 
leaders  hesitated ;  but  young  Henry  stepped  forward  and 
proposed  in  seven  resolutions  that  the  British  Parliament 
be  told  distinctly  that  Virginia  was  to  be  taxed  by  no  one 
but  Virginia's  own  representatives.  Timid  men  trembled. 
Cautious  men  drew  back.  The  cry  of  "  Treason !  "  was 
raised.  "  If  this  be  treason,  make  the  most  of  it,"  retorted 
Henry  ;  and  in  spite  of  stubborn  opposition,  threats,  and 
abuse,  the  resolutions  were  passed.  Whether  this  was  the 
first  step  in  the  American  Revolution  is  immaterial.  All 
the  American  colonies  were  restless  and  uneasy,  and  the 
Virginia  resolutions  were,  as  General  Gage  wrote,  "  the 
signal  for  a  general  outcry." 

Before  the  resolutions  were  finally  passed  the  instigator  of 
all  this  trouble  was  quietly  journeying  home,  but  he  came 
back  to  Williamsbiirg  again  and  again  in  the  next  few  years. 
He  was  in  the  House  of  Burgesses  ;  he  served  on  committees 
of  correspondence  and  attended  conventions  ;  and  finally  he 
was  sent  to  the  first  Continental  Congress  at  Philadelphia 
in  1774.  On  his  way  thither,  with  Edmund  Pendleton,  an 
other  delegate,  he  stayed  a  night  at  Mt.  Vernon.  They 
found  Mrs.  Washington  as  much  of  a  patriot  as  her  husband. 
"  I  hope  you  will  all  stand  firm,"  she  said,  "  I  know  George 
will."  On  arriving  in  Philadelphia,  the  three  delegates  cre 
ated  an  excellent  impression.  "  These  gentlemen  from  Vir 
ginia  appear  to  be  the  most  spirited  and  consistent  of  any," 
John  Adams  noted  in  his  diary. 

The  most  notable  work  of  the  First  Continental  Congress 
was  the  framing  of  several  great  state  papers,  including  an 
address  to  the  king  on  the  wrongs  of  America.  Henry  did 


392  PATRICK  HENRY. 

his  share  of  the  routine  work  of  the  Congress,  but  his  posi 
tion  was  an  advanced  one  always.  "  I  go  upon  the  supposi 
tion  that  government  is  at  an  end,"  and  "  I  am  inclined  to 
think  the  present  measures  lead  to  war,"  were  some  of  the 
ideas  he  expressed. 

From  Philadelphia  Henry  returned  to  find  Virginia  rest 
less  with  the  spirit  of  revolution.  In  common  with  the  peo 
ple  of  other  colonies,  Virginians  were  saying  to  themselves, 
"  If  war  does  come,  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  Military  prepara 
tion  was  necessary,  and  the  Virginia  convention,  that  met  in 
March,  1775,  at  once  began  to  consider  the  matter.  Henry 
brought  forward  resolutions  favoring  the  establishment  of  a 
militia  and  the  appointment  of  a  committee  to  put  the  colony 
in  a  state  of  defence.  In  support  of  this  action  he  urged  what 
every  other  public  man  in  America  had  shrunk  from  urging. 
He  made  no  qualification,  he  offered  no  saving  clause ;  in 
one  instant  he  flung  aside  all  the  hopes  of  all  the  petitions 
sent  to  England.  "  We  must  fight !  "  he  cried,  like  a  voice 
from  heaven.  "An  appeal  to  arms,  and  to  the  God  of 
Hosts,  is  all  that  is  left  us." 

Very  soon  Patrick  Henry  had  a  chance  to  prove  his 
courage  in  the  field.  The  royal  governor  removed  the 
gunpowder  belonging  to  the  colony  from  the  storehouse  at 
Williamsburg.  Henry  mustered  his  company  and  in  a 
fortnight  arrived  within  sixteen  miles  of  the  capital.  Pay 
ment  for  the  powder  was  demanded  and  received  before 
the  company  retired. 

To  the  Second  Continental  Congress  Henry  went,  and  he 
stayed  through  the  session  to  aid  in  the  necessary  work  of 
organizing  a  government  and  establishing  a  national  de 
fence.  Returning,  he  was  placed  in  command  of  the  Vir 
ginia  troops,  but  as  his  authority  was  not  upheld  by  the 
Virginia  committee  of  safety,  he  retired  to  his  home,  which 
was  soon  saddened  by  the  death  of  his  wife.  He  was  next 
sent  to  the  Virginia  Convention,  which  drafted  a  constitution 
for  the  new  commonwealth  of  Virginia,  and  Henry  exerted 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  393 

all  his  influence  to  prevent  the  frame  of  government  from 
assuming  an  aristocratic  tone.  He  dreaded  the  domination 
of  a  few  opulent  families,  and  wanted  to  see  the  people 
rule.  Finally  the  constitution  was  adopted,  and  he  was  at 
once  chosen  governor. 

During  his  three  years'  term  as  governor,  Henry  was  far 
from  idle.  The  supervision  of  affairs  at  home,  the  support 
of  the  American  soldiers  in  the  field,  demanded  unremitting 
energy.  In  the  Continental  Army  Henry  had  a  special 
interest.  Washington  was  a  Virginian  and  his  personal 
friend,  and  he  gave  him  most  cordial  and  hearty  support. 
During  his  governorship  he  married  as  his  second  wife  a 
granddaughter  of  old  Governor  Spotswood.  When  he  re 
tired  he  was  elected  at  once  to  the  House  of  Delegates,  and 
was  a  member  of  that  body  when  it  was  driven  from  place 
to  place  by  Cornwallis's  troopers. 

After  the  close  of  the  war  Henry  served  two  more  years 
as  governor,  and  then  retired  to  the  practice  of  his  profes 
sion,  just  when  the  question  of  the  adoption  of  a  federal 
constitution  was  under  consideration.  While  governor,  he 
supported  the  plan  of  strengthening  the  general  govern 
ment,  but  as  the  time  of  the  convention  approached,  his 
attitude  grew  colder,  and  at  last  he  refused  to  accept  a 
place  on  the  delegation  from  Virginia.  That  convention 
drew  up  a  constitution  never  equalled,  but  Henry  was  not 
pleased.  The  constitution  was  not  popular  enough  ;  too 
many  rights  were  surrendered  by  the  people  ;  there  was  no 
specific  list  of  rights  reserved.  The  battle  he  fought  against 
it  was  of  no  doubtful  character.  During  the  discussion  in 
Virginia,  at  the  election  of  delegates  to  the  Virginia  con 
vention,  during  the  convention  itself,  every  inch  of  ground 
was  stubbornly  contested.  And  the  vote  for  ratification 
was  scarcely  decided  before  the  battle  for  amendments  was 
begun,  —  a  battle  that  was  won,  though  not  in  the  extreme 
form  Henry  wished. 

This  was  Patrick  Henry's  last  public  service.     A  few 


394  PATRICK  HENRY. 

more  years  of  legal  practice,  during  which  he  demonstrated 
that  he  had  acquainted  himself  with  the  most  complex  prin 
ciples  of  law,  and  the  career  which  had  opened  so  inconspic 
uously  and  continued  so  brilliantly  was  ended.  He  suc 
cessively  declined  a  seat  in  the  United  States  Senate,  the 
position  of  Secretary  of  State,  the  office  of  Chief  Justice 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  an  embassy  to 
France,  and  a  sixth  election  to  the  governorship  of  Vir 
ginia.  An  appeal  from  Washington,  however,  to  appear 
once  more  in  the  Virginia  legislature  was  heeded.  He  was 
at  once  elected,  but  died  on  June  6,  1799,  without  even 
taking  his  seat. 

EVENTS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  PATRICK  HENRY.1 

Born  at  Studley,  Hanover  County,  Va.  May  29,  1736 

Licensed  at  Williamsburg,  to  practice  law  .  .  .  .  1760 
Argument  in  the  "Parsons'  Cause  "  .  .  .  December  1,  1763 
Moved  in  the  House  of  Burgesses  the  "Virginia  Resolves," 

which  denied  the  right  of  Great  Britain  to  tax  Virginia, 

May  29,  1765 
A   member    of   the   first  Virginia    revolutionary   convention, 

August,  1774 

A  member  of  the  First  Continental  Congress  .  September,  1774 
Moved  in  the  second  Virginia  revolutionary  convention  for  the 

arming  of  the  colony  .  .  .  .  .  March  23,  1775 
A  member  of  the  Second  Continental  Congress  May  to  August,  1775 
Commander-in-chief  of  Virginia  troops, 

August  5, 1775-February  28,  1776 
A  member  of  the  third  Virginia  revolutionary  convention,  that 

framed  the  Virginia,  constitution  .  .  May  and  June,  1776 
Governor  of  Virginia  ....  June  29,  1776-June  2,  1779 
A  member  of  the  Virginia  Legislature  May,  1780-November,  1784 
Governor  of  Virginia.  .  November  30,  1784-November  30,  1786 
Opposed  the  Federal  Constitution  in  the  Virginia  Convention, 

June  2-25,  1788 
Died  at  Red  Hill,  Charlotte  Co.,  Va.  June  6,  1799 

1  Dates  are  from  Prof.  M.  C.  Tyler's  Patrick  Henry. 


SPEECH  OF  MARCH  23,   1775. 

DELIVERED  IN  THE   SECOND   VIRGINIA  CONVENTION   IN  SUP 
PORT   OF   RESOLUTIONS    REQUIRING   THAT    THE   COLONY 
BE   PLACED   IN   A   STATE    OF   DEFENCE. 

DESCRIPTIVE  INTRODUCTION. 

WHEN  the  second  revolutionary  convention  of  Virginia 
assembled  at  Richmond,  the  20th  of  March,  1775,  it  was 
evident  that,  unless  Great  Britain  took  immediate  steps  to 
conciliate  the  American  colonies,  war  was  inevitable.  A 
number  of  the  colonies  had  already  taken  steps  toward  rais 
ing  troops.  Some  of  the  counties  in  Virginia  had  done  this 
also,  but  as  yet  Virginia  had  taken  no  general  action.  In 
fact,  the  public  men  were  not  ready  to  admit  that  the  chance 
for  reconciliation  had  entirely  passed.  Three  days  after 
the  meeting  of  the  convention  Patrick  Henry  offered  three 
resolutions  calling  for  the  establishment  of  a  militia  and  for 
the  appointment  of  a  committee  to  put  the  colony  in  a  state 
of  defence.  During  the  debate  which  occurred  on  these 
resolutions  he  made  the  speech  which  follows.  This  speech 
was  the  definite  announcement  that  the  time  for  conference 
had  passed,  and  war  had  actually  begun. 

As  a  specimen  of  oratory  it  was  recognized  at  once  as 
remarkable.  There  has  come  down  a  very  interesting  ac 
count  of  the  speech,  related  by  an  eye-witness.  The  narrator 
says  of  the  orator :  — 

"Voice,  countenance,  and  gestures  gave  an  irresistible 
force  to  his  words,  which  no  description  could  make  intelli 
gible  to  one  who  had  never  seen  him  nor  heard  him  speak. 


396  PATRICK  HENRY. 

.  .  .  You  remember,  sir,  the  conclusion  of  the  speech,  so 
often  declaimed  in  various  ways  by  schoolboys  :  '  Is  life  so 
dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of 
chains  and  slavery  ?  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God !  I  know 
not  what  course  others  may  take,  but  as  for  me,  give  me 
liberty,  or  give  me  death !  '  He  gave  each  of  these  words 
a  meaning  which  is  not  conveyed  by  the  reading  or  delivery 
of  them  in  the  ordinary  way.  When  he  said,  '  Is  life  so 
dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of 
chains  and  slavery  ?  '  he  stood  in  the  attitude  of  a  con 
demned  galley  slave,  loaded  with  fetters,  awaiting  his  doom. 
His  form  was  bowed ;  his  wrists  were  crossed,  his  manacles 
were  almost  visible  as  he  stood  like  an  embodiment  of  help 
lessness  and  agony.  After  a  solemn  pause,  he  raised  his 
eyes  and  chained  hands  towards  heaven,  and  prayed,  in 
words  and  tones  which  thrilled  every  heart,  '  Forbid  it, 
Almighty  God  ! '  He  then  turned  toward  the  timid  loyal 
ists  of  the  house,  who  were  quaking  with  terror  at  the  idea 
of  the  consequences  of  participating  in  proceedings  which 
would  be  visited  with  the  penalties  of  treason  by  the  British 
crown  ;  and  he  slowly  bent  his  form  yet  nearer  to  the  earth, 
and  said,  *  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take,'  and  he 
accompanied  the  words  with  his  hands  still  crossed,  while 
he  seemed  to  be  weighed  down  with  additional  chains.  The 
man  appeared  transformed  into  an  oppressed,  heart-broken, 
and  hopeless  felon.  After  remaining  in  this  posture  of  hu 
miliation  long  enough  to  impress  the  imagination  with  the 
condition  of  the  colony  under  the  iron  heel  of  military  de 
spotism,  he  arose  proudly,  and  exclaimed,  '  but  as  for  me,' 
—  and  the  words  hissed  through  his  clenched  teeth,  while 
his  body  was  thrown  back,  and  every  muscle  and  tendon 
was  strained  against  the  fetters  which  bound  him,  and,  with 
his  countenance  distorted  by  agony  and  rage,  he  looked  for 
a  moment  like  Laocoon  in  a  death  struggle  with  coiling  ser 
pents  ;  then  the  loud,  clear,  triumphant  notes,  *  give  me 
liberty,'  electrified  the  assembly.  It  was  not  a  prayer,  but 


SPEECH  OF  MARCH  23,  1775.  397 

a  stern  demand,  which  would  submit  to  no  refusal  or  delay. 
.  .  .  Each  syllable  of  the  word  '  liberty  '  echoed  through 
the  building,  —  his  fetters  were  shivered ;  his  arms  were 
hurled  apart ;  and  the  links  of  his  chains  were  scattered  to 
the  winds.  When  he  spoke  the  word  '  liberty  '  with  an  em 
phasis  never  given  it  before,  his  hands  were  open,  and  his 
arms  elevated  and  extended  ;  his  countenance  was  radiant ; 
he  stood  erect  and  defiant ;  while  the  sound  of  his  voice  and 
the  sublimity  of  his  attitude  made  him  appear  a  magnificent 
incarnation  of  Freedom,  and  expressed  all  that  can  be  ac 
quired  or  enjoyed  by  nations  and  individuals  invincible  and 
free.  After  a  momentary  pause,  only  long  enough  to  per 
mit  the  echo  of  the  word  '  liberty  '  to  cease,  he  let  his  left 
hand  fall  powerless  to  his  side,  and  clenched  his  right  hand 
firmly,  as  if  holding  a  dagger  with  the  point  aimed  at  his 
breast.  He  stood  like  a  Roman  senator  defying  Caesar, 
while  the  unconquerable  spirit  of  Cato  of  Utica  flashed  from 
every  feature  ;  and  he  closed  the  grand  appeal  with  the  sol 
emn  words,  '  or  give  me  death ! '  which  sounded  with  the 
awful  cadence  of  a  hero's  dirge,  fearless  of  death,  and  vic 
torious  in  death ;  and  he  suited  the  action  to  the  word  by  a 
blow  upon  the  left  breast  with  the  right  hand,  which  seemed 
to  drive  the  dagger  to  the  patriot's  heart." 

The  immediate  results  of  this  speech  were  that  in  spite 
of  strong  opposition  the  resolutions  were  carried  and  a  com 
mittee  of  which  Henry  himself  was  chairman  was  appointed 
to  put  the  colony  in  a  state  of  defence.  The  version  of  the 
speech  here  used  is  taken  from  Wirt's  Life  of  Patrick 
Henry,  and  was  gathered  originally  from  the  recollections 
of  the  hearers. 

MR.  PRESIDENT  :  It  is  natural  to  man  to  indulge 
in  the  illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes 
against  a  painful  truth  —  and  listen  to  the  song  of 
that  siren,  till  she  transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this 
the  part  of  wise  men,  engaged  in  a  great  and  arduous 


398  PATRICK  HENRY. 

struggle  for  liberty  ?  Are  we  disposed  to  be  of  the 
number  of  those  who  having  eyes,  see  not,  and  hav 
ing  ears,  hear  not,  the  things  which  so  nearly  concern 
their  temporal  salvation  ?  For  my  part,  whatever  an 
guish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am  willing  to  know  the 
whole  truth  ;  to  know  the  worst,  and  to  provide  for  it. 
I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided ; 
and  that  is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no 
way  of  judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And 
judging  by  the  past,  I  wish  to  know  what  there  has 
been  in  the  conduct  of  the  British  ministry  for  the 
last  ten  years,  to  justify  those  hopes  with  which  gen 
tlemen  have  been  pleased  to  solace  themselves  and 
the  house  ?  Is  it  that  insidious  smile  with  which  our 
petition  has  been  lately  received  ?  Trust  it  not,  sir ; 
it  will  prove  a  snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  your 
selves  to  be  betrayed  with  a  kiss.  Ask  yourselves 
how  this  gracious  reception  of  our  petition  comports 
with  those  warlike  preparations  which  cover  our  waters 
and  darken  our  land.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary 
to  a  work  of  love  and  reconciliation  ?  Have  we  shown 
ourselves  so  unwilling  to  be  reconciled  that  force  must 
be  called  in  to  win  back  our  love  ?  Let  us  not  deceive 
ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the  implements  of  war  and 
subjugation,  —  the  last  arguments  to  which  kings  re 
sort.  I  ask  gentlemen,  sir,  what  means  this  martial 
array,  if  its  purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission  ? 
Can  gentlemen  assign  any  other  possible  motive  for 
it  ?  Has  Great  Britain  any  enemy  in  this  quarter  of 
the  world,  to  call  for  all  this  accumulation  of  navies 
and  armies?  No,  sir,  she  has  none.  They  are  meant 
for  us :  they  can  be  meant  for  no  other.  They  are 
sent  over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon  us  those  chains  which 
the  British  ministry  have  been  so  long  forging.  And 


SPEECH  OF  MARCH  23,  1775.  399 

what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them  ?  Shall  we  try  argu 
ment  ?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying*  that  for  the  last  ten 
years.  Have  we  anything  new  to  offer  upon  the  sub 
ject?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in  every 
light  of  which  it  is  capable ;  but  it  has  been  all  in 
vain.  Shall  we  resort  to  entreaty  and  humble  sup 
plication  ?  What  terms  shall  we  find  which  have  not 
been  already  exhausted  ?  Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you, 
sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer. 

Sir,  we  have  done  everything  that  could  be  done  to 
avert  the  storm  which  is  now  coming  on.  We  have 
petitioned  —  we  have  remonstrated  —  we  have  sup 
plicated —  we  have  prostrated  ourselves  before  the 
throne,  and  have  implored  its  interposition  to  arrest 
the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and  parliament. 
Our  petitions  have  been  slighted  ;  our  remonstrances 
have  produced  additional  violence  and  insult ;  our  sup 
plications  have  been  disregarded  ;  and  we  have  been 
spurned,  with  contempt,  from  the .  foot  of  the  throne. 
In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond 
hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer 
any  room  for  hope.  If  we  wish  to  be  free  —  if  we 
mean  to  preserve  inviolate  these  inestimable  privileges 
for  which  we  have  been  so  long  contending  —  if  we 
mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the  noble  struggle  in 
which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged,  and  which  we 
have  pledged  ourselves  never  to  abandon  until  the 
glorious  object  of  our  contest  shall  be  obtained  —  we 
must  fight !  —  I  repeat  it,  sir,  we  must  fight ! !  An 
appeal  to  arms  and  to  the  God  of  Hosts,  is  all  that  is 
left  us ! 

They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak  —  unable  to  cope 
with  so  formidable  an  adversary.  But  when  shall  we 
be  stronger  ?  Will  it  be  the  next  week  or  the  next 


400  PATRICK  HENRY. 

year?  Will  it  be  when  we  are  totally  disarmed,  and 
when  a  British  guard  shall  be  stationed  in  every  house  ? 
Shall  we  gather  strength  by  irresolution  and  inaction? 
Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual  resistance  by 
lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hugging  the  delusive 
phantom  of  hope,  until  our  enemies  shall  have  bound 
us  hand  and  foot  ?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak,  if  we  make 
a  proper  use  of  those  means  which  the  God  of  nature 
hath  placed  in  our  power.  Three  millions  of  people, 
armed  in  the  holy  cause  of  liberty,  and  in  such  a 
country  as  that  which  we  possess,  are  invincible  by 
any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send  against  us.  Be 
sides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles  alone.  There 
is  a  just  God  who  presides  over  the  destinies  of  na 
tions  ;  and  who  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight  our  bat 
tles  for  us.  The  battle,  sir,  is  not  to  the  strong  alone ; 
it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  the  brave.  Besides, 
sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough  to 
desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the  contest. 
There  is  no  retreat  but  in  submission  and  slavery! 
Our  chains  are  forged.  Their  clanking  may  be  heard 
on  the  plains  of  Boston !  The  war  is  inevitable  — 
and  let  it  come !  !  I  repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come !  !  ! 

It  is  in  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentle 
men  may  cry  peace,  peace  —  but  there  is  no  peace. 
The  war  is  actually  begun !  The  next  gale  that 
sweeps  from  the  north  will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash 
of  resounding  arms !  Our  brethren  are  already  in 
the  field  !  Why  stand  we  here  idle  ?  What  is  it  that 
gentlemen  wish?  What  would  they  have?  Is  life 
so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the 
price  of  chains  and  slavery?  Forbid  it,  Almighty 
God  !  —  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take ;  but 
as  for  me,  give  me  liberty,  or  give  me  death ! 


WILLIAM  WIRT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

WILLIAM  WIRT  was  born  in  Bladensburg,  Maryland,  on 
the  18th  of  November,  1772.  Losing  his  parents  at  a 
very  early  age,  he  was  placed  under  the  guardianship  of 
his  uncle,  Jasper  Wirt,  a  resident  of  the  same  village.  In 
his  seventh  year  he  was  sent  to  a  school  in  Georgetown, 
District  of  Columbia,  and  later  to  another,  at  New  Port 
Church,  Charles  County,  Maryland  ;  but  the  chief  part  of  his 
education  was  received  at  the  school  of  the  Reverend  James 
Hunt,  in  Montgomery  County,  which  he  entered  in  his  elev 
enth  year,  and  in  which  he  continued  until  he  was  fifteen. 
Under  the  instruction  of  this  gentleman,  he  went  through 
the  usual  course  of  the  grammar  schools  of  those  days,  being 
initiated  in  the  Latin  and  Greek  classics,  and  in  some  of 
the  branches  of  mathematics  and  natural  philosophy.  Here 
he  also  had  the  advantage  of  a  good  miscellaneous  library, 
which  cultivated  his  taste  for  polite  literature,  and  enabled 
him  to  become  a  confirmed  student  at  an  early  age.  As 
Montgomery  Court  House  was  at  no  great  distance,  the  boys 
were  allowed  to  visit  it  occasionally  on  court  days,  and  in 
imitation  of  what  they  saw  and  heard  there,  they  formed  a 
court  of  their  own.  Wirt  drafted  the  constitution  and  laws, 
which  he  offered  with  an  apologetic  letter  prefixed.  When 
the  school  was  broken  up,  in  1787,  Mr.  Benjamin  Edwards, 
the  father  of  one  of  his  schoolfellows,1  who  had  seen  this 

1  Niiiian  Edwards,  the  late  governor  of  Illinois. 


402  WILLIAM  WIRT. 

juvenile  essay  and  letter,  was  induced  to  invite  the  author 
under  his  roof,  where  he  accordingly  remained  in  the  capa 
city  of  teacher  about  a  year  and  a  half.  This  was  a  for 
tunate  event  for  a  young  man  whose  patrimony  was  inad 
equate  to  support  him  at  college,  or  in  the  acquirement  of  a 
profession,  and  Mr.  Wirt  often  said  that  to  Mr.  Edwards's 
peculiar  and  happv  cast  of  character  he  owed  most  of  what 
was  praiseworthy  in  his  own. 

Ill  health  forced  Wirt  to  leave  this  happy  home  in  1788 
for  the  beneficial  climate  of  Georgia,  where  he  remained 
until  the  following  spring,  when  at  the  earnest  solicitation 
of  William  P.  Hunt,  the  son  of  his  former  preceptor,  he 
began  the  study  of  law  at  Montgomery  Court  House.  Con 
tinuing  this  study  at  Leesburg  until  1792,  he  was  licensed 
to  practice  and  removed  to  Culpeper  Court  House,  Virginia, 
where  his  professional  career  began.  His  first  essay  at  the 
bar  was  fortunate,  and  gained  him  friends  as  well  as  sub 
sequent  success. 

In  1795,  Wirt  married  Mildred,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Doctor  George  Gilmer,  of  Pen  Park,  near  Charlottes ville. 
In  the  elegant  library  of  this  gentleman,  he  cultivated  his 
mind  by  the  study  of  philosophy  and  composition.  Upon 
the  death  of  his  wife  in  1799,  this  happy  and  profitable 
course  of  life  was  interrupted,  and  as  a  change  of  scene  he 
was  persuaded  to  remove  to  Richmond.  Here  his  friends 
secured  for  him  the  clerkship  of  the  House  of  Delegates, 
which  he  held  during  three  sessions  of  the  Assembly.  Re 
suming  the  study  of  law  in  1800,  Wirt  volunteered  to  assist 
in  the  trial  of  Callender,  and  the  same  year  pronounced 
the  anniversary  oration  on  Independence  Day. 

In  1802,  the  General  Assembly  selected  him  as  Chan 
cellor  for  the  Eastern  Chancery  District  of  Virginia.  The 
following  autumn  he  married  the  daughter  of  Colonel 
Gamble  of  Richmond.  During  the  winter  of  1803-4  he 
removed  to  Norfolk,  where  he  wrote  the  famous  British, 
Spy  essays,  which  were  originally  published  in  the  Rich- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  403 

mond  Argus.  Some  of  these  sketches  received  wide  popu 
larity,  and  that  of  the  "  Blind  Preacher  "  was  read  in  nearly 
every  hamlet  in  the  country. 

At  Norfolk  he  practiced  successfully  until  1806,  when  he 
returned  to  Richmond.  That  city,  being  adorned  by  men 
of  great  legal  talent  and  learning,  afforded  him  a  wider  pro 
fessional  field.  There  he  continued  the  practice  of  law  for 
eleven  years,  greatly  increasing  his  reputation  by  participa 
tion  in  1807  in  the  celebrated  trial  of  Aaron  Burr,  whom 
he  prosecuted  under  the  direction  of  President  Jefferson. 
The  winter  following  this  great  trial,  Wirt  was  elected  as  a 
delegate  to  the  General  Assembly,  from  Richmond.  His 
report  and  resolutions  respecting  the  aggressions  of  France 
and  Great  Britain  on  American  commerce,  made  during 
this  term  of  office,  attracted  much  attention.  Following 
this  magnificent  effort  he  wrote,  under  the  signature  "  One 
of  the  People,"  a  series  of  essays  addressed  to  the  members 
of  Congress  who  had  united  in  a  protest  against  the  nomi 
nation  of  James  Madison  for  President.  In  this  the  char 
acter  and  services  of  that  illustrious  citizen  were  clearly  and 
forcibly  portrayed.  About  this  time  Wirt  addressed  the 
people  of  Virginia,  in  commendation  of  domestic  manu 
factures.  He  followed  this  eloquent  appeal  by  approving, 
under  the  signature  of  "Sentinel,"  the  financial  and  other 
views  of  Mr.  Jefferson,  then  attracting  wide  attention. 

During  the  winter  of  1817-18,  he  accepted  the  appoint 
ment  of  Attorney-General  of  the  United  States,  in  the 
cabinet  of  President  Monroe,  which  he  held  during  three 
presidential  terms.  His  life  in  Washington,  with  the  pow 
erful  antagonists  of  the  Supreme  Court  arena,  proved  a 
grand  and  lasting  benefit.  He  surpassed  the  noblest  efforts 
of  his  predecessors,  and  his  opinions  delivered  during  that 
period  established  the  first  precedents  of  the  office.  Re 
signing  this  post  at  the  close  of  Adams's  administration,  he 
removed  to  Baltimore,  where  his  professional  career  con 
tinued  to  add  lustre  to  his  fame.  In  1832  Wirt  accepted 


404  WILLIAM   WIRT. 

the  Anti-Masons'  nomination  for  the  presidency,  receiving 
the  electoral  vote  of  Vermont,  and  a  popular  vote  of  33,108. 
This  was  the  last  great  event  of  a  great  and  noble  life, 
which  ended  in  Washington  on  February  18,  1834. 

John  P.  Kennedy,  in  his  "  Discourse  on  the  Life  and 
Character  of  William  Wirt,"  recognizing  "  this  powerful 
orator  who  had  the  art  to  sway  courts  and  juries  with  a 
master's  spirit,"  and  who  beautifully  mentions  his  zealous 
and  faithful  adherence  to  Christianity,  speaks  of  him  as 
follows  :  — 

"  As  a  literary  man  he  would  have  acquired  a  more 
permanent  renown  than  the  nature  of  professional  occupa 
tion  or  the  exercises  of  the  forum  are  capable  of  conferring 
upon  their  votaries.  The  pen  of  genius  erects  its  own 
everlasting  monument ;  but  the  triumphs  of  the  speaker's 
eloquence,  vivid,  brilliant,  and  splendid  as  they  are,  live 
but  in  the  history  of  their  uncertain  effects  and  in  the 
intoxicating  applause  of  the  day :  to  incredulous  posterity 
they  are  distrusted  tradition,  the  extravagant  boasting  of 
an  elder  age  prone  by  its  nature  to  disparage  the  present 
by  the  narrated  glories  of  the  past.  He  was  a  powerful 
orator,  with  a  train  of  earnest  argumentation,  and  the  at 
tention  of  his  auditory  was  kept  alive  by  a  vivid  display  of 
classic  allusion,  by  flashes  of  wit  and  merriment,  and  by  the 
familiar  imagery  which  was  called  in  aid  to  give  point  to 
his  demonstrations,  or  light  to  what  the  subject  rendered 
obscure  to  the  common  apprehension. 

"  Lastly,  he  was  a  zealous  and  faithful  Christian.  He 
loved  old  forms  and  opinions,  and,  with  something  like  a 
patriarch's  reverence,  he  headed  his  little  family  flock  on 
their  Sunday  walks  to  church  :  morning  and  evening  he 
gathered  them  together,  and  on  bended  knee  invoked  his 
Father's  blessing  on  his  household ;  and  at  the  daily  meal 
bowed  his  calm  and  prophet-like  figure  over  the  family 
repast,  to  ask  that  grace  of  the  Deity,  on  which  his  heart 
rested  with  its  liveliest  hope,  and  to  express  that  thankful- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


405 


ness  which  filled  and  engrossed  his  soul.  Such  was  this 
man  in  the  retirement  of  his  domestic  hearth,  and  thus  did 
his  affections,  in  that  little  precinct,  bloom  with  the  daily 
increasing  virtues  of  love  of  family,  of  friends,  of  his  coun 
try  and  of  his  God." 

William  Wirt's  principal  publications  include  Letters  of 
the  British  Spy,  The  Rainbow,  Arguments  in  the  Trial 
of  Burr,  The  Old  Bachelor,  Life  of  Patrick  Henry,  Dis 
courses  on  Jefferson  and  Adams,  an  Address  at  Rutgers 
College,  and  Triumph  and  Liberty  in  France. 


The  Church  of  the  Old  Blind  Preacher. 


THE   OLD  BLIND   PREACHER. 

FROM  "THE  BRITISH  SPY." 

[JAMES  WADDELL  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1739.  Shortly 
after  his  birth,  his  parents  emigrated  to  America  and  settled 
in  the  southeastern  part  of  Pennsylvania.  At  the  age  of 
thirteen,  young  Waddell  entered  the  Finley  Academy,  at 
Nottingham,  Pennsylvania,  where  he  studied  the  classics, 
mathematics,  and  logic,  which  served  him  so  well  in  later 
life. 

Leaving  Pennsylvania,  Waddell  settled  first  in  Hanover 
County,  Virginia,  and  later  in  Louisa  County,  where  he  de 
voted  his  leisure  time  to  the  study  of  theology.  In  1761  he 
was  licensed  as  a  probationer  in  the  Presbytery  of  Hanover, 
and  during  the  following  year  he  accepted  a  call  to  the 
churches  of  Lancaster  and  Northumberland.  Seven  years 
later  he  married  Mary  Gordon,  the  daughter  of  Colonel 
James  Gordon,  ancestor  of  General  Gordon  of  Albemarle. 

In  1783  the  united  congregations  of  Staunton  and  Tin 
kling  Springs  extended  a  call  which  Dr.  Waddell  accepted. 
From  this  locality  the  remarkable  man  removed  to  Hope- 
well,  his  estate  in  the  angle  of  Louisa,  Orange,  and  Albe 
marle  counties,  where  he  ended  his  days  September  17, 
1805. 

In  person  Waddell  was  tall  and  erect,  and  is  said  to  have 
presented  a  striking  appearance.  "  His  complexion  was  fair, 
and  his  eyes  of  a  light  blue ;  his  mien  unusually  dignified, 
and  his  manners  elegant  and  graceful.  His  eloquence  has 
become  a  matter  of  tradition  in  Virginia."] 


THE  OLD  BLIND  PREACHER.  407 

IT  was  one  Sunday,  as  I  travelled  through  the  county 
of  Orange,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  cluster  of 
horses  tied  near  a  ruinous  old  wooden  house,  in  the 
forest,  not  far  from  the  roadside.  Having  frequently 
seen  such  objects  before,  in  travelling  through  these 
States,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  this 
was  a  place  of  religious  worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in 
the  duties  of  the  congregation ;  but  I  must  confess, 
that  curiosity,  to  hear  the  preacher  of  such  a  wilder 
ness,  was  not  the  least  of  my  motives.  On  entering, 
I  was  struck  with  his  preternatural  appearance.  He 
was  a  tall  and  very  spare  old  man  ;  his  head,  which 
was  covered  with  a  white  linen  cap,  his  shrivelled 
hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all  shaking  under  the  influ 
ence  of  a  palsy ;  and  a  few  moments  ascertained  to  me 
that  he  was  perfectly  blind. 

The  first  emotions  which  touched  my  breast,  were 
those  of  mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But  ah  !  sacred 
God  !  how  soon  were  all  my  feelings  changed  !  The 
lips  of  Plato  were  never  more  worthy  of  a  prognostic 
swarm  of  bees,  than  were  the  lips  of  this  holy  man  ! 
It  was  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the  sacrament ; 
and  his  subject,  of  course,  was  the  passion  of  our 
Saviour.  I  had  heard  the  subject  handled  a  thousand 
times  :  I  had  thought  it  exhausted  long  ago.  Little 
did  I  suppose,  that  in  the  wild  woods  of  America,  I 
was  to  meet  with  a  man  whose  eloquence  would  give 
to  this  topic  a  new  and  more  sublime  pathos  than  I 
had  ever  before  witnessed. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  to  distribute  the 
mystic  symbols,  there  was  a  peculiar,  a  more  than 
human  solemnity  in  his  air  and  manner,  which  made 
my  blood  run  cold,  and  my  whole  frame  shiver. 


408  WILLIAM  WIRT: 

He  then  drew  a  picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our 
Saviour,  —  his  trial  before  Pilate,  his  ascent  up  Cal 
vary,  his  crucifixion,  and  his  death.  I  knew  the  whole 
history  ;  but  never,  until  then,  had  I  heard  the  circum 
stances  so  selected,  so  arranged,  so  colored !  It  was 
all  new :  and  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life.  His  enunciation  was  so  deliberate, 
that  his  voice  trembled  on  every  syllable ;  and  every 
heart  in  the  assembly  trembled  in  unison.  His  pecu 
liar  phrases  had  that  force  of  description,  that  the 
original  scene  appeared  to  be,  at  that  moment,  act 
ing  before  our  eyes.  We  saw  the  very  faces  of  the 
Jews  :  the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice  and 
rage.  We  saw  the  buffet,  —  my  soul  kindled  with  a 
flame  of  indignation,  and  my  hands  were  involuntarily 
and  convulsively  clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  for 
giving  meekness  of  our  Saviour  ;  when  he  drew,  to  the 
life,  his  blessed  eyes  streaming  in  tears  to  heaven,  his 
voice  breathing  to  God  a  soft  and  gentle  prayer  of 
pardon  on  his  enemies,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do,"  — the  voice  of  the  preacher, 
which  had  all  along  faltered,  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
until  his  utterance  being  entirely  obstructed  by  the 
force  of  his  feelings,  he  raised  his  handkerchief  to  his 
eyes,  and  burst  into  a  loud  and  irrepressible  flood  of 
grief.  The  effect  is  inconceivable.  The  whole  house 
responded  with  the  mingled  groans  and  sobs  and  shrieks 
of  the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided, 
so  far  as  to  permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging 
by  the  usual  but  fallacious  standard  of  my  own  weak 
ness,  I  began  to  be  very  uneasy  for  the  situation  of  the 
preacher.  For  I  could  not  conceive,  how  he  would  be 


THE  OLD  BLIND  PREACHER.  409 

able  to  let  his  audience  down  from  the  height  to  which 
he  had  wound  them,  without  impairing  the  solemnity 
and  dignity  of  his  subject,  or  perhaps  shocking  them 
by  the  abruptness  of  the  fall.  But  —  no  :  the  descent 
was  as  beautiful  and  sublime,  as  the  elevation  had  been 
rapid  and  enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence,  with  which  he  broke  the  awful 
silence,  was  a  quotation  from  Rousseau :  "  Socrates 
died  like  a  philosopher;  but  Jesus  Christ,  like  a 
God!" 

I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  pro 
duced  by  this  short  sentence,  unless  you  could  per 
fectly  conceive  the  whole  manner  of  the  man,  as  well 
as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  discourse.  Never  before 
did  I  completely  understand  what  Demosthenes  meant 
by  laying  such  stress  on  delivery.  You  are  to  bring 
before  you  the  venerable  figure  of  the  preacher,  —  his 
blindness  constantly  recalling  to  your  recollection  old 
Homer,  Ossian,  and  Milton,  and  associating  with  his 
performance  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  their  ge 
niuses  ;  you  are  to  imagine  that  you  hear  this  slow, 
solemn,  well-accented  enunciation,  and  his  voice  of 
affecting,  trembling  melody ;  you  are  to  remember 
the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  to  which  the  con 
gregation  were  raised,  and  then  the  few  minutes  of 
portentous,  deathlike  silence  which  reigned  through 
out  the  house.  The  preacher,  removing  his  white  hand 
kerchief  from  his  aged  face  (even  yet  wet  from  the 
recent  torrent  of  his  tears),  and  slowly  stretching  forth 
the  palsied  hand  which  holds  it,  begins  the  sentence, 
"  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher,"  —  then  pausing, 
raising  his  other  hand,  pressing  them  both  clasped 
together  with  warmth  and  energy  to  his  breast,  lifting 
his  "sightless  balls"  to  heaven,  and  pouring  his  whole 


410  WILLIAM   WIRT. 

soul  into  his  tremulous  voice,  "  but  Jesus  Christ  — 
like  a  God  I  "  If  he  had  been  in  deed  and  in  truth 
an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could  scarcely  have  been 
more  divine. 

Whatever  I  had  been  able  to  conceive  of  the  sub 
limity  of  Massillon,  or  the  force  of  Bourdaloue,  had 
fallen  far  short  of  the  power  which  I  felt  from  the 
delivery  of  this  simple  sentence.  The  blood,  which 
just  before  had  rushed  in  a  hurricane  upon  my  brain, 
and,  in  the  violence  and  agony  of  my  feelings,  had 
held  my  whole  system  in  suspense,  now  ran  back  into 
my  heart,  with  a  sensation  which  I  cannot  describe : 
a  kind  of  shuddering,  delicious  horror!  The  parox 
ysm  of  blended  pity  and  indignation,  to  which  I  had 
been  transported,  subsided  into  the  deepest  self-abase 
ment,  humility,  and  adoration.  I  had  just  been  lacer 
ated  and  dissolved  by  sympathy  for  our  Saviour  as  a 
fellow-creature ;  but  now,  with  fear  and  trembling,  I 
adored  him  as  —  "a  God "  ! 

If  this  description  give  you  the  impression  that  this 
incomparable  minister  had  anything  of  shallow,  the 
atrical  trick  in  his  manner,  it  does  him  great  injustice. 
I  have  never  seen,  in  any  other  orator,  such  an  union 
of  simplicity  and  majesty.  He  has  not  a  gesture,  an 
attitude,  or  an  accent,  to  which  he  does  not  seem 
forced,  by  the  sentiment  which  he  is  expressing.  His 
mind  is  too  serious,  too  earnest,  too  solicitous,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  too  dignified,  to  stoop  to  artifice.  Al 
though  as  far  removed  from  ostentation  as  a  man  can 
be,  yet  it  is  clear  from  the  train,  the  style  and  sub 
stance  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  is  not  only  a  very 
polite  scholar,  but  a  man  of  extensive  and  profound 
erudition.  I  was  forcibly  struck  with  a  short  yet 
beautiful  character  which  he  drew  of  our  learned  and 


THE  OLD  BLIND  PREACHER.  411 

amiable  countryman,  Sir  Robert  Boyle :  he  spoke  of 
him  as  if  "  his  noble  mind  had,  even  before  death, 
divested  herself  of  all  influence  from  his  frail  taber 
nacle  of  flesh ;  "  and  called  him,  in  his  peculiarly  em 
phatic  and  impressive  manner,  "  a  pure  intelligence, 
the  link  between  men  and  angels." 

This  man  has  been  before  my  imagination  almost 
ever  since.  A  thousand  times,  as  I  rode  along,  I 
dropped  the  reins  of  my  bridle,  stretched  forth  my 
hand,  and  tried  to  imitate  his  quotation  from  Rous 
seau  ;  a  thousand  times  I  abandoned  the  attempt  in 
despair,  and  felt  persuaded  that  his  peculiar  manner 
and  power  arose  from  an  energy  of  soul,  which  nature 
could  give,  but  which  no  human  being  could  justly 
copy.  In  short,  he  seems  to  be  altogether  a  being  of 
a  former  age,  or  of  a  totally  different  nature  from  the 
rest  of  men.  As  I  recall,  at  this  moment,  several  of  his 
awfully  striking  attitudes,  the  chilling  tide  with  which 
the  blood  begins  to  pour  along  my  arteries  reminds 
me  of  the  emotions  produced  by  the  first  sight  of 
Gray's  introductory  picture  of  his  bard,  — 

"  On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood  ; 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 

Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air)  : 
And  with  a  poet's  hand  and  prophet's  fire, 

Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre." 


KEVERDY  JOHNSON. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

REVERDY  JOHNSON  was  born  in  Annapolis,  Md.,  May  21, 
1796,  and  died  in  the  same  city  February  10,  1876.  His 
father,  John  Johnson,  was  a  lawyer  of  distinction,  at  one 
time  chancellor  of  Maryland.  Reverdy  received  his  aca 
demic  training  at  St.  John's  College  in  his  native  city,  and 
afterward  studied  law  in  his  father's  office.  Admitted  to 
the  bar  in  1815,  he  practiced  first  in  Prince  George  County, 
where  he  was  made  deputy  attorney-general.  In  1817  he 
removed  to  Baltimore,  and  soon  attracted  favorable  atten 
tion  by  the  exhibition  of  the  strong  qualities  that  subsequently 
made  him  famous. 

From  1821  to  1825  he  was  in  public  life  as  a  member  of 
the  state  senate.  The  next  twenty  years  were  spent  mainly 
in  successful  practice  of  the  law,  but  in  1845  he  was  sent  to 
Washington  as  one  of  the  representatives  of  Maryland  in 
the  United  States  Senate.  He  did  not  serve  out  a  full  term, 
however,  for  a  Cabinet  portfolio  was  offered  him  by  President 
Taylor,  and  he  was  Attorney-General  until  the  President's 
death  in  1850.  On  the  accession  of  Fillmore  he  resigned, 
and  again  took  up  his  law  practice  in  Baltimore.  He  was 
returned  to  the  United  States  Senate  in  1863,  but,  as  before, 
he  did  not  serve  out  a  full  term,  having  been  appointed 
minister  to  England  in  1868  by  President  Andrew  Johnson, 
to  succeed  Charles  Francis  Adams.  One  of  the  most  im 
portant  matters  demanding  his  attention  there  was  the  press- 


414  REVERDY  JOHNSON. 

ing  of  the  claims  made  by  the  United  States  government 
for  damages  inflicted  by  the  famous  Confederate  cruiser 
"  Alabama."  He  negotiated  a  treaty  with  Lord  Palmerston, 
in  which  he  secured  substantial  recognition  of  every  point 
claimed  by  this  government,  but  the  Senate  majority  refused 
to  ratify  it,  and  in  1869,  when  President  Grant  came  to  the 
executive  chair,  he  recalled  Mr.  Johnson. 

He  was  now  seventy-three  years  old,  but  he  resumed  his 
legal  work  with  all  the  energy  of  a  young  man,  and  so  con 
tinued  till  death  overtook  him  suddenly  when  he  had  nearly 
reached  his  eightieth  birthday.  He  was  stricken  down  with 
apoplexy  in  the  executive  mansion  at  Annapolis,  where  he 
was  the  governor's  guest  while  awaiting  the  calling  of  a 
case  in  court  for  which  he  had  been  retained. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  a  lawyer  of  profound  learning  and  con 
summate  skill,  and  argued  many  important  cases  before  the 
United  States  Supreme  Court,  in  almost  every  part  of  the 
country  from  New  England  to  California.  In  1854  he 
was  employed  by  some  English  claimants  to  conduct  a  case 
before  an  Anglo-American  commission,  and  during  a  resi 
dence  of  several  months  in  England  he  received  much  at 
tention  from  judges  and  lawyers.  On  his  return  he  left  a 
reputation  that  insured  him  a  hearty  welcome  when  he  be 
came  United  States  minister  in  1868. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  courage  and  of  absolutely  inde 
pendent  judgment.  Several  times  in  his  public  career  this 
independence  brought  him  into  open  opposition  to  most  of 
his  party  associates.  At  the  opening  of  the  Mexican  War, 
though  he  was  a  Whig,  he  heartily  supported  President 
Polk's  war  measures,  which  the  Whigs  generally  opposed 
with  vehemence.  Ten  years  later,  his  dislike  of  the  Know- 
Nothing  party  and  its  aims  again  alienated  him  from  most 
of  his  political  friends,  and  led  him  finally  to  join  the  Demo 
crats.  He  supported  Buchanan's  administration,  and  in 
1860  was  an  active  advocate  qf  the  election  of  Douglas. 
Like  the  latter,  he  stood  with  the  North  in  the  four  years 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  415 

that  followed,  but  at  the  close  of  the  war  he  urged  the  re- 
admission  of  the  Southern  States  into  the  Union  without 
delay. 

He  was  already  past  the  allotted  span  of  human  life  when 
he  pronounced  the  eulogy  that  follows ;  but  it  is  doubtful  if 
among  all  his  addresses  there  is  one  that  shows  his  high 
qualities  more  clearly  than  this  noble  tribute  to  General 
Robert  E.  Lee,  whose  genius  he  appreciated  so  justly  and 
whom  he  loved  so  warmly,  even  during  those  unhappy 
years  when  the  red  tide  of  war  surged  between  them. 


TRIBUTE  TO  ROBERT  E.  LEE 

[This  speech  was  delivered  October  29,  1870,  at  a  meet 
ing  to  appoint  delegates  to  represent  the  State  of  Maryland 
at  the  Richmond  Lee  Monument  Convention.  The  text  of 
the  speech  here  given  is  from  J.  E.  Cooke's  Life  of  Robert 
E.  Lee.'] 

MK.  CHAIRMAN  AND  GENTLEMEN  :  I  am  here  in  com 
pliance  with  the  request  of  many  gentlemen  present, 
and  I  not  only  willingly  complied  with  that  request, 
but  I  am  willing  to  do  all  I  am  able,  to  show  my 
appreciation  of  the  character,  civil  and  military,  of 
Robert  E.  Lee.  It  was  my  good  fortune  to  know  him 
before  the  Mexican  War,  in  those  better  days  before 
the  commencement  of  the  sad  struggle  through  which 
we  have  recently  passed.  I  saw  in  him  everything 
that  could  command  the  respect  and  admiration  of 
men,  and  I  watched  with  peculiar  interest  his  course 
in  the  Mexican  War.  It  was  also  my  good  fortune 
to  know  the  late  Lieutenant-General  Scott.  In  the 
commencement  of  the  struggle  to  which  I  have  alluded, 
I  occupied  in  Washington  the  position  of  quasi  mili 
tary  adviser  to  him,  and  was,  in  that  capacity,  intimately 
associated  with  him.  I  have  heard  him  often  declare 
that  the  glorious  and  continued  success  which  crowned 
our  arms  in  the  war  with  Mexico  was  owing,  in  a  large 
measure,  to  the  skill,  valor,  and  undaunted  courage  of 
Robert  E.  Lee.  He  entertained  for  him  the  warm 
est  personal  friendship,  and  it  was  his  purpose  to 


TRIBUTE   TO  ROBERT  E.  LEE.  417 

recommend  him  as  his  successor  in  the  event  of  his 
death  or  inability  to  perform  the  duties  of  his  high 
position.  In  April,  1861,  after  the  commencement  of 
hostilities  between  the  two  great  sections  of  our  country, 
General  Lee,  then  lieutenant-colonel  of  cavalry  in  the 
Army  of  the  United  States,  offered  his  resignation. 
I  was  with  General  Scott  when  he  was  handed  the 
letter  of  resignation,  and  I  saw  what  pain  the  fact 
caused  him.  While  he  regretted  the  step  his  most 
valuable  officer  had  taken,  he  never  failed  to  say  em 
phatically,  and  over  and  over  again,  that  he  believed 
he  had  taken  it  from  an  imperative  sense  of  duty. 
He  was  also  consoled  by  the  belief  that  if  he  was  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  armies  of  the  then  Confederation,  he 
would  have  in  him  a  foeman  in  every  way  worthy  of 
him,  and  one  who  would  conduct  the  war  upon  the 
highest  principles  of  civilized  warfare,  and  that  he 
would  not  suffer  encroachments  to  be  made  upon  the 
rights  of  private  property  and  the  rights  of  unoffend 
ing  citizens. 

Some  may  be  surprised  that  I  am  here  to  eulogize 
Robert  E.  Lee.  It  is  well  known  that  I  did  not  agree 
with  him  in  his  political  views.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  late  war,  and  for  many  years  preceding  it,  even 
from  the  foundation  of  this  government,  two  great 
questions  agitated  the  greatest  minds  of  this  country. 
Many  believed  that  the  allegiance  of  the  citizen  was 
due  first  to  his  State,  and  many  were  of  the  opinion 
that,  according  to  the  true  reading  of  the  Constitution, 
a  State  had  no  right  to  leave  the  Union  and  claim 
sovereign  rights  and  the  perpetual  allegiance  of  her 
citizens.  I  did  not  agree  in  the  first-named  opinion, 
but  I  knew  it  was  honestly  entertained.  I  knew  men 
of  the  purest  character,  of  the  highest  ability,  and  of 


418  REVERDY  JOHNSON. 

the  most  liberal  and  patriotic  feelings,  who  conscien 
tiously  believed  it.  Now  the  war  is  over,  thank  God !  — 
and  to  that  thank  I  am  sure  this  meeting  will  respond, 
—  it  is  the  duty  of  every  citizen  of  this  land  to  seek  to 
heal  the  wounds  of  the  war,  to  forget  past  differences, 
and  to  forgive,  as  far  as  possible,  the  faults  to  which 
the  war  gave  rise.  In  no  other  way  can  the  Union  be 
truly  and  permanently  restored.  We  are  now  together 
as  a  band  of  brothers.  The  soldiers  of  the  Confeder 
acy,  headed  by  the  great  chief  we  now  mourn,  have 
expressed  their  willingness  to  abide  by  the  issue  of  the 
contest.  What  a  spectacle  to  the  world !  After  years 
of  military  devastation,  with  tens  of  thousands  dead 
on  her  battle-fields,  with  the  flower  of  her  children 
slain,  with  her  wealth  destroyed,  her  commerce  swept 
away,  her  agricultural  and  mechanical  pursuits  almost 
ruined,  the  South  yielded.  The  North,  victorious  and 
strong,  could  not  forget  what  she  owed  to  liberty  and 
human  rights.  We  may  well  swear  now  that  as  long 
as  liberty  is  virtuous  we  will  be  brothers. 

Robert  E.  Lee  is  worthy  of  all  praise.  As  a  man, 
he  was  peerless  ;  as  a  soldier,  he  had  no  equal  and  no 
superior ;  as  a  humane  and  Christian  soldier,  he  towers 
high  in  the  political  horizon.  You  cannot  imagine  with 
what  delight,  when  I  had  the  honor  to  represent  this 
country  at  the  court  of  Great  Britain,  I  heard  the 
praises  of  his  fame  and  character  which  came  from 
soldiers  and  statesmen.  I  need  not  speak  of  the  com 
parative  merits  of  General  Lee  and  the  Union  gen 
erals  who  opposed  him ;  this  is  not  the  place  or  time 
for  a  discussion  of  their  respective  successes  and  de 
feats  ;  but  I  may  say  that,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to 
judge  of  the  sentiments  of  the  military  men  of  Great 
Britain,  they  thought  none  of  the  Union  officers  supe- 


TRIBUTE  TO  ROBERT  E.  LEE.  419 

rior  to  General  Robert  E.  Lee.  Their  admiration  for 
him  was  not  only  on  account  of  his  skill  on  the  battle 
field,  and  the  skilful  manner  with  which  he  planned 
and  executed  his  campaigns,  but  the  humane  manner 
in  which  he  performed  his  sad  duty.  They  alluded 
specially  to  his  conduct  when  invading  the  territory 
of  his  enemy  —  his  restraint  upon  his  men,  telling 
them  that  the  honor  of  the  army  depended  upon  the 
manner  of  conducting  the  war  in  the  enemy's  country 
—  and  his  refusal  to  resort  to  retaliatory  measures.  I 
know  that  great  influences  were  brought  to  bear  upon 
him,  when  he  invaded  Pennsylvania,  to  induce  him  to 
consent  to  extreme  measures.  His  answer,  however, 
was,  "  No  ;  if  I  suffer  my  army  to  pursue  the  course 
recommended,  I  cannot  invoke  the  blessing  of  God 
upon  my  arms."  He  would  not  allow  his  troops  to 
destroy  private  property  or  to  violate  the  rights  of  the 
citizens.  When  the  necessities  of  his  army  compelled 
the  taking  of  commissary  stores,  by  his  orders  his  offi 
cers  paid  for  them  in  Confederate  money  at  its  then 
valuation.  No  burning  homesteads  illumined  his 
march,  no  shivering  and  helpless  children  were  turned 
out  of  their  homes  to  witness  their  destruction  by  the 
torch.  With  him  all  the  rules  of  civilized  war,  having 
the  higher  sanction  of  God,  were  strictly  observed. 
The  manly  fortitude  with  which  he  yielded  at  Appo- 
mattox  to  three  times  his  numbers  showed  that  he  was 
worthy  of  the  honors  and  the  fame  the  South  had  given 
him.  This  is  not  the  first  time  since  the  termination 
of  the  war  I  have  expressed  admiration  and  friendship 
for  Robert  E.  Lee.  When  I  heard  that  he  was  about 
to  be  prosecuted  in  a  Virginia  court  for  the  alleged 
crime  of  treason,  I  wrote  to  him  at  once,  and  with  all 
my  heart,  that  if  he  believed  I  could  be  of  any  service 


420  REVERDY  JOHNSON. 

to  him,  professionally,  I  was  at  his  command.  All  the 
ability  I  possess,  increased  by  more  than  fifty  years  of 
study  and  experience,  would  have  been  cheerfully  ex 
erted  to  have  saved  him,  for  in  saving  him  I  believe  I 
would  have  been  saving  the  honor  of  my  country.  I  re 
ceived  a  characteristic  reply  in  terms  of  friendship  and 
grateful  thanks.  He  wrote  that  he  did  not  think  the 
prosecution  would  take  place.  Hearing,  however,  some 
time  after,  that  the  prosecution  would  commence  at  Rich 
mond,  I  went  at  once  to  that  city  and  saw  his  legal  ad 
viser,  Hon.  William  H.  McFarland,  one  of  the  ablest  men 
of  the  bar  of  Virginia.  Mr.  McFarland  showed  me 
a  copy  of  a  letter  from  General  Lee  to  General  Grant, 
enclosing  an  application  for  a  pardon  which  he  desired 
General  Grant  to  present  to  the  President,  but  telling 
him  not  to  present  it  if  any  steps  had  been  taken  for 
his  prosecution,  as  he  was  willing  to  stand  the  test. 
He  wrote  that  he  had  understood  by  the  terms  of  sur 
render  at  Appomattox  that  he  and  all  his  officers  and 
men  were  to  be  protected.  That  letter,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  raised  General  Lee  higher  in  my  esteem.  Gene 
ral  Grant  at  once  replied,  and  he  showed  his  reply  to 
me.  He  wrote  that  he  had  seen  the  President,  and 
protested  against  any  steps  being  taken  against  Gene 
ral  Lee,  and  had  informed  him  that  he  considered  his 
honor  and  the  honor  of  the  nation  pledged  to  him. 
The  President  became  satisfied,  and  no  proceedings 
were  ever  taken.  General  Grant  transmitted  to  the 
President  the  application  of  General  Lee  for  pardon, 
indorsed  with  his  most  earnest  approval.  No  pardon 
was  granted.  He  did  not  need  it  here,  and  when  he 
appears  before  that  great  tribunal  before  which  we 
must  all  be  called,  he  will  find  he  has  no  account  to 
settle  there.  No  soldier  who  followed  General  Lee 


TRIBUTE  TO  ROBERT  E.  LEE.  421 

could  have  felt  more  grief  and  sympathy  at  his  grave 
than  I  would,  could  I  have  been  present  upon  the 
mournful  occasion  of  his  burial.  I  lamented  his  loss 
as  a  private  loss,  and  still  more  as  a  public  loss.  I 
knew  that  his  example  would  continue  to  allay  the  pas 
sions  aroused  by  the  war,  and  which  I  was  not  sur 
prised  were  excited  by  some  acts  in  that  war.  I  love 
my  country.  I  am  jealous  of  her  honor.  I  cherish 
her  good  name,  and  I  am  proud  of  the  land  of  my 
birth.  I  forbear  to  criticise  the  lives  and  characters 
of  her  high  officers  and  servants,  but  I  can  say  with 
truth  that,  during  the  late  war,  the  laws  of  humanity 
were  forgotten,  and  the  higher  orders  of  God  were 
trodden  under  foot. 

The  resolutions  need  no  support  which  human  lips 
can  by  human  language  give.  Their  subject  is  their 
support.  The  name  of  Lee  appeals  at  once,  and 
strongly,  to  every  true  heart  in  this  land  and  through 
out  the  world.  Let  political  partisans,  influenced  by 
fanaticism  and  the  hope  of  political  plunder,  find  fault 
with  and  condemn  us.  They  will  be  forgotten  when 
the  name  of  Lee  will  be  resplendent  with  immortal 
glory. 

Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen,  in  the  course  of 
nature  my  career  upon  earth  must  soon  terminate. 
God  grant  that  when  the  day  of  my  death  comes  I 
may  look  up  to  heaven  with  that  confidence  and  faith 
which  the  life  and  character  of  Eobert  E.  Lee  gave 
him!  He  died  trusting  in  God,  as  a  good  man,  with 
a  good  life  and  a  pure  conscience.  He  was  consoled 
with  the  knowledge  that  the  religion  of  Christ  had 
ordered  all  his  ways,  and  he  knew  that  the  verdict  of 
God  upon  the  account  he  would  have  to  render  in 
heaven  would  be  one  of  judgment  seasoned  with 


422  REVERDY  JOHNSON. 

mercy.  He  had  a  right  to  believe  that  when  God 
passed  judgment  upon  the  account  of  his  life,  though 
He  would  find  him  an  erring  human  being,  He  would 
find  virtue  enough  and  religious  faith  enough  to  save 
him  from  any  other  verdict  than  that  of  "  Well  done, 
good  and  faithful  servant."  The  monument  will  be 
raised,  and  when  it  is  raised  many  a  man  will  visit 
Kichmond  to  stand  beside  it,  to  do  reverence  to  the 
remains  it  may  cover,  and  to  say,  "  Here  lie  the  re 
mains  of  one  of  the  noblest  men  who  ever  lived  or 
died  in  America !  " 


THREE  SOUTHERN  POETS. 


TIMROD,   LANIER,   TABB. 

IT  must  always  be  a  source  of  keen  regret  that  the  first 
two  of  these  poets  died  at  so  early  an  age  :  Timrod  laid 
down  his  pen  at  thirty-eight  and  Lanier  at  thirty-nine,  and 
the  poetry  they  left  is  but  a  partial  fulfilment  of  their 
genius. 

HENRY  TIMROD  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  Decem 
ber  8,  1829,  of  a  German  family  that  was  prominent  there 
before  the  Revolution.  He  studied  at  the  University  of 
Georgia,  and  though  his  course  was  cramped  by  lack  of 
means  and  interrupted  by  sickness,  he  stored  his  mind  with 
classic  learning  and  the  wealth  of  English  letters.  He 
coveted  a  professor's  chair,  and  was  well  equipped  for  one, 
but  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  the  work  of  a  pri 
vate  teacher.  His  leisure  hours  were  given  to  literature, 
and  in  1860  he  published  a  small  volume  of  poems  through 
Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston.  It  was  warmly  received, 
both  in  the  North  and  in  the  South,  and  seemed  a  sure  por 
tent  of  success  ;  but  thirteen  years  passed  before  another 
volume  appeared  under  his  name,  —  when  the  poet  had 
been  six  years  in  his  grave. 

An  ardent  Carolinian,  Timrod  enlisted  in  the  Confeder 
ate  army ;  he  was  physically  too  weak,  however,  for  ser 
vice  in  the  field,  and  became  a  war  correspondent.  In 
1864  he  was  made  editor  of  the  South  Carolinian,  at  Co- 


424  TIMROD,  LANIER,   TABS. 

lumbia,  but  he  was  already  broken  in  health,  and  lived 
only  till  October  6,  1867.  Since  his  death  several  editions 
of  his  collected  poems  have  been  issued.  Spring,  The  Cot 
ton  Boll,  and  some  of  his  stirring  war  lyrics,  like  Carolina, 
show  him  at  his  best. 

SIDNEY  LANIEB  was  a  native  of  Georgia,  having  been 
born  at  Macon,  February  3,  1842.  He  graduated  from 
Oglethorpe  College,  Midway,  Ga.,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
just  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  and  when  the 
State  called  her  sons  to  arms,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  en 
list.  Captured  on  a  blockade-runner  and  imprisoned  for 
some  months,  he  underwent  hardships  that  probably  had 
much  to  do  with  the  shattering  of  his  health.  In  later 
years  he  suffered  greatly  from  sickness,  and  often  did  his 
literary  work  under  heavy  physical  disadvantages. 

After  the  war  he  was  for  a  time  a  teacher  in  Alabama, 
and  then  practised  law  in  Macon,  with  his  father.  Later 
he  made  his  home  in  Baltimore,  Md.  There  he  delivered 
lectures  at  Johns  Hopkins  University  and  the  Peabody  In 
stitute,  and  played  first  flute  in  the  Peabody  symphony 
concerts.  His  reputation  as  a  flute-player  was  very  high  ; 
music,  indeed,  was  one  of  the  passions  of  his  life,  and  ex 
ercised  sometimes  a  controlling  influence  over  the  form 
of  his  verse.  A  just  estimate  of  his  poetry  is  impossi 
ble  without  due  regard  to  his  views  on  rhythmical  struc 
ture. 

Lanier's  first  published  book  was  Tiger  Lilies,  a  novel 
of  army  life,  issued  in  1867.  He  also  wrote  several  books 
for  boys,  but  it  was  as  a  poet  that  he  made  his  most  valu 
able  contributions  to  American  literature.  In  1876,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Bayard  Taylor,  he  was  invited  to  write  a 
cantata  for  the  opening  of  the  Centennial  Exposition. 
Among  his  finest  and  most  popular  poems  are  The  Song  of 
the  Chattahoochee,  The  Marshes  of  Glynn,  The  Stirrup- 
Cup,  and  The  Mocking-Bird. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES.  425 

JOHN  BANISTER  TABB  is  a  priest  of  the  Romish  Church, 
and  a  teacher  of  English  in  St.  Charles  College,  Ellicott 
City,  Md.  He  was  born  in  Amelia  County,  Va.,  March 
22,  1845,  and  ordained  to  the  priesthood  in  1884.  Like 
Timrod  and  Lanier  he  gained  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  "  church  militant "  in  his  early  years,  for  during  the 
Civil  War  he  served  as  captain's  mate  on  a  blockade- 
runner.  There  is  nothing  warlike,  however,  in  his  poetry. 
The  main  sources  of  his  inspiration  are  a  love  of  nature 
(especially  of  birds  and  flowers),  and  deep  religious  senti 
ment.  Imagination,  fancy,  and  wit  are  abundant  in  his 
work,  which  is  characterized,  as  Mr.  Stedman  says,  by 
"  exquisite  beauty,  point,  and  finish."  He  seems  deliber 
ately  to  have  chosen  a  small  scale,  and  few  of  his  poems 
exceed  twenty  lines  ;  many  of  the  most  perfect  of  them 
are  quatrains. 

"  Father  Tabb "  has  published  several  small  volumes, 
and  has  won  a  measure  of  favor  that  is  accorded  to  very 
few  American  poets  of  the  present  day. 


HENEY  TIMROD 
SPRING 

SPRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there 's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 


SPRING.  427 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there 's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

"  Behold  me !     I  am  May  I  " 

Ah !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 
With  such  a  blessed  time ! 


428  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  ! 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 

OUT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Down  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE.         429 

And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side, 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  "  Abide,  abide," 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said,  "  Stay," 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed,  "  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall." 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  "  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall." 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone  — 
Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 


430  FATHER   TABS. 

Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst  — 

Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 
In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And,  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call  — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main ; 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


JOHN  B.  TABB  (FATHER  TABB), 
CLOVER. 

LITTLE  masters,  hat  in  hand, 
Let  me  in  your  presence  stand, 
Till  your  silence  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery. 

Tell  me  —  for  I  long  to  know  — 
How,  in  darkness  there  below, 
Was  your  fairy  fabric  spun, 
Spread  and  fashioned,  three  in  one. 

Did  your  gossips  gold  and  blue, 
Sky  and  Sunshine,  choose  for  you, 
Ere  your  triple  forms  were  seen, 
Suited  liveries  of  green  ? 


A  LAMENT.  431 


Can  ye  —  if  ye  dwelt  indeed 
Captives  of  a  prison  seed  — 
Like  the  Genie,  once  again 
Get  you  back  into  the  grain  ? 

Little  masters,  may  I  stand 
In  your  presence,  hat  in  hand, 
Waiting  till  you  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery  ? 


FERN  SONG. 

DANCE  to  the  beat  of  the  rain,  little  Fern, 
And  spread  out  your  palms  again, 

And  say,  "  TW  the  sun 

Hath  my  venture  spun, 
He  had  labored,  alas,  in  vain, 

But  for  the  shade 

That  the  Cloud  hath  made, 
And  the  gift  of  the  Dew  and  the  Rain." 

Then  laugh  and  upturn 

All  your  fronds,  little  Fern, 
And  rejoice  in  the  beat  of  the  rain ! 


A  LAMENT. 

"  O  LADY  CLOUD,  why  are  you  weeping  ?  "  I  said. 
"Because,"    she    made   answer,    "  my   rain-beau    is 
dead." 


432  FATHER   TABB. 

EVOLUTION. 

OUT  of  the  dusk  a  shadow, 

Then,  a  spark ; 
Out  of  the  cloud  a  silence, 

Then,  a  lark ; 
Out  of  the  heart  a  rapture, 

Then,  a  pain ; 
Out  of  the  dead,  cold  ashes, 

Life  again. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

THE  sculptor  in  the  marble  found 
Her  hidden  from  the  world  around, 

As  in  a  donjon  keep : 
With  gentle  hand  he  took  away 
The  coverlet  that  o'er  her  lay, 

But  left  her  fast  asleep. 

And  still  she  slumbers  ;  e'en  as  he 
Who  saw  in  far  futurity 

What  now  before  us  lies,  — 
The  fairest  vision  that  the  stream 
Of  night,  subsiding,  leaves  agleam 

Beneath  the  noonday  skies. 


LANIER'S  FLUTE.  433 

AN   INTERVIEW. 

I  SAT  with  chill  December 

Beside  the  evening  fire. 
44  And  what  do  you  remember," 

I  ventured  to  inquire, 
"  Of  seasons  long  forsaken  ?  " 

He  answered  in  amaze, 
"  My  age  you  have  mistaken  ; 

I  Ve  lived  but  thirty  days." 


A   LEGACY. 

Do  you  remember,  little  cloud, 
This  morning  —  when  you  lay 

A  mist  along  the  river  —  what 
The  waters  had  to  say  ? 

And  how  the  many-colored  flowers 
That  on  the  margin  grew, 

All  promised  when  the  day  was  done 
To  leave  their  tints  to  you  ? 


LANIER'S   FLUTE. 

WHEN  palsied  at  the  pool  of  Thought 
The  Poet's  words  were  found, 

Thy  voice  the  healing  Angel  brought 
To  touch  them  into  sound. 


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64.  65,  66.   Lambs'  Tales  from  Shakespeare.    In  three  parts.** 

67.  Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar.*  ** 

68.  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village,  the  Traveller,  and  Other  Poems.* 
6g.   Hawthorne's  Old  Manse,  and  a  Few  Mosses.** 

70.  A  Selection  from  Whittier's  Child  Life  in  Poetry.** 

71.  A  Selection  from  Whittier's  Child  Life  in  Prose.** 

72.  Milton's  L'Allegro,  II  Penseroso,  Comus,  Lycidas,  and  Sonnets.*  ** 

73.  Tennyson's  Enoch  Arden,  and  Other  Poems.* 

For  explanation  of  signs  see  end  of  list. 


literature  £erieg  -  continued 

74.  Gray's  Elegy,  etc. ;  Cowper's  John  Gilpin,  etc. 

75.  Scudder's  George  Washington.§ 

76.  Wordsworth's  On  the  Intimations  of  Immortality,  and  Other  Poems. 
77  Burns's  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  and  Other  Poems.* 

78.  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield.f 

79.  Lamb's  Old  China,  and  Other  Essays  of  Elia. 

80.  Coleridge's  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  etc. ;  Campbell's  Lochiel's 

Warning,  etc.* 

81.  Holmes's  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- Table.§§ 

82.  Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales.§§§ 

83.  George  Eliot's  Silas  Marner.§ 

84.  Dana's  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast.§§§ 

85.  Hughes's  Tom  Brown's  School  Days.§§ 

86.  Scott's  Ivanhoe.§§§ 

87.  Defoe's  Robinson  Crusoe.  §§§ 

88.  Stowe's  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.§§§ 

89.  Swift's  Gulliver's  Voyage  to  Lilliput.** 

90.  Swift's  Gulliver's  Voyage  to  Brobdingnag.** 

91.  Hawthorne's  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.§§§ 

02.  Burroughs's  A  Bunch  of  Herbs,  and  Other  Papers. 

93.  Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It.*** 

94.  Milton's  Paradise  Lost.    Books  I.-IH .** 

95»  96, 97»  98-  Cooper's  Last  of  the  Mohicans.    In  four  parts. 

(  The  four  parts  also  bound  in  one  volume,  linen,  60  cents.) 
99.  Tennyson's  Coming  of  Arthur,  and  Other  Idylls  of  the  King. 

100.  Burke's  Conciliation  with  the   Colonies.    ROBERT  ANDERSEN,  A.  M.* 

101.  Homer's  Iliad.     Books  I.,  VI.,  XXII.,  and  XXIV.     POPE* 

102.  Macaulay's  Essays  on  Johnson  and  Goldsmith.* 

103.  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Milton.*** 

104.  Macaulay's  Life  and  Writings  of  Addison.*** 

Nos.  102,  103,  and  104  are  edited  by  WILLIAM  P.  TRENT. 

105.  Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns.    GEORGE  R.  NOYES.* 

106.  Shakespeare's  Macbeth.     RICHARD  GRANT  WHITE,  and  HELEN  GRAY 

CNOE*  ** 

107.  108.  Grimms'  German  Household  Tales.     In  two  parts. $ 
109.  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.     W.  V.  MOODY.§ 

no.   De  Quincey's  Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe.    MILTON  HAIGHT  TURK.* 
in.   Tennyson's  Princess.     ROLFE.      (Double   Number,  30  cents.    Also,  in 
Rolfe*s  Students'  Series,  cloth,  to  Teachers,   53  cents.) 

112.  Virgil's  .^Eneid.    Books  I. -II I.     Translated  by  CRANCH. 

113.  Poems  from  the  Writings  of   Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.      GEORGE  H. 

BROWNE.** 

114.  Old  Greek  Folk  Stories.    JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY.* 

115.  Browning's  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  and  Other  Poems. 

116.  Shakespeare's  Hamlet.  RICHARD  GRANT  WHITE  and  HELEN  GRAY  CONB.§ 

117.  118.   Stories  from  the  Arabian  Nights.     In  two  parts.! 

119.  Poe's  Raven,  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  etc.** 

120.  Poe's  Gold-Bug,  The  Purloined  Letter,  and  Other  Tales.** 

Nos.  119,  120  are  edited  by  WILLIAM  P.  TRENT. 

121.  The  Great  Debate:  Hayne's  Speech.** 

122.  The  Great  Debate :  Webster's  Reply  to  Hayne.** 

Nos.  121,  122  are  edited  by  LINDSAY  SWIFT. 

123.  Lowell's  Democracy,  and  Other  Papers.** 

124.  Aldrich's  Baby  Bell,  The  Little  Violinist,  etc. 

125.  Dryden's  Palamon  and  Arcite.     ARTHUR  OILMAN.* 

126.  Ruskin's  King  of  the  Golden  River ;  Wonder  Stories,  by  Others.* 

127.  Keats's  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  etc. 

128.  Byron's  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and    Other  Poems. 

129.  Plato's  The  Judgment  of  Socrates  :  being   The  Apology,  Crito,  and 

the  Closing  Scene  of  Phaedo.     Translated  by  PAUL  E.  MORE. 

130.  Emerson's  The  Superlative,  and  Other  Essays. 

131.  Emerson's  Nature,  and  Compensation.  Edited  by  EDWARD  W.  EMERSON. 

132.  Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustum,  etc.     LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINBY.* 

133.  Carl  Schurz's  Abraham  Lincoln.** 

134.  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.     ROLFE.    (Double  Number,  30  cents. 

Also  in  Rolf e's  Students'  Series,  cloth,  to  Teachers,  53  cents.) 
135, 136.  Chaucer's  Prologue,  The  Knight's  Tale,  and  The  Nun's  Priest's 
Tale.     [135]  Introduction,  and  The  Prologue.     [136.]  The  Knight's  Tale, 
and  The  Nun's  Priest's  Tale.     FRANK  J.  MATHER,  JR.** 

For  explanation  of  signs  see  end  of  list. 


literature 

137.  Homer's  Iliad.    Books  I.,  VI.,  XXII.,  and  XXIV.   Translated  by  BRYANT. 

138.  Hawthorne's  The  Custom  House,  and  Main  Street. 

139.  Howells's  Doorstep  Acquaintance,  and  Other  Sketches. 

140.  Thackeray's  Henry  Esmond.    (Quintuple  No.)   Pa.,  60  cts. ;  linen,  75  cts. 

141.  Three  Outdoor  Papers,  by  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 

142.  Buskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies:   i.  Of  Kings'  Treasuries;  2.  Of  Queens' 

Gardens.* 

143.  Plutarch's  Life  of  Alexander  the  Great.    North 's  Translation. 

144.  Scudder's  Book  of  Legends.* 

145.  Hawthorne's  Gentle  Boy,  and  Other  Tales. 

146.  Longfellow's  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms. 

147.  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock,  and  Other  Poems.    HENRY  W.  BOYNTON. 

148.  Hawthorne's  Marble  Faun.     ANNIE  RUSSELL  MARBLB.§§§ 

149.  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night.     R.  G.  WHITE  and  HELEN  GRAY  CONE.* 

150.  Ouida's  A  Dog  of  Flanders,  and  The  Niirnberg  Stove.* 

151.  Mrs.  Ewing's  Jackanapes,  and  The  Brownies.*    H.  W.  BOYNTON. 

152.  Martineau's  Peasant  and  Prince.    §H.  W.  BOYNTON. 

153.  Shakespeare's  Midsummer- Night's  Dream.    LAURA  E.  LOCKWOOD. 

154.  Shakespeare's  Tempest.    R.  G.  WHITE  and  E.  E.  HALE,  JR.* 

155.  Irving's  Life  of  Goldsmith.    WILLIS  BOUGHTON.§§ 

156.  Tennyson's  Gareth  and  Lynette,  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  The  Passing  of 

Arthur.* 

157.  The  Song  of  Eoland.    Translated  by  ISABEL  BUTLER.§ 

158.  Merlin,  and  Sir  Balin.    Books  I.  and  II.    From  Malory's  King  Arthur. 

C.  G.  CHILD.* 

159.  Beowulf.    C.  G.  CHILD.* 

EXTRA   NUMBERS 

A   American  Authors  and  their  Birthdays.    By  A.  S.  ROB. 

B  Portraits  and  Biographies  of  Twenty  American  Authors. 

C  A  Longfellow  Night.     For  Catholic  Schools  and  Societies. 

D  Literature  in  School.     Essays  by  HORACE  E.  SCUDDBR. 

E  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.     Dialogues  and  Scenes. 

F  Longfellow  Leaflets.  \ 

G  Whittier  Leaflets.      I  Each  a  Double  Number,  30  cents  ;  linen,  40  cents. 

H  Holmes  Leaflets.         f  Poems  and  Prose  Passages  for  Reading  and  Recitation. 

O  Lowell  Leaflets.         J 

7  The  Riverside  Primary  Reading  Manual  for  Teachers.    By  I.  F.  HALL. 

K  The  Riverside  Primer  and  Reader.    25  cents ;  linen,  30  cents. 

L  The  Riverside  Song  Book.  120  Classic  American  Poems  set  to  Standard 
Music.  (Double  Number^  JO  cents  ;  boards,  40  cents.) 

M  Lowell's  Fable  for  Critics.     (Double  Number,  30  cents.) 

N  Selections  from  the  Writings  of  Eleven  American  Authors. 

P  The  Hiawatha  Primer.  (Special  Number.)  A  First  Book  in  Reading.  By 
FLORENCE  HOLBROOK.  Cloth  only,  40  cents. 

V  The  Book  of  Nature  Myths.  (Special  Number.")  A  Second  Book  in  Reading, 
to  follow  the  Hiawatha  Primer.  By  FLORENCE  HOLBROOK.  Cloth  only, 
45  cents. 

Q  Selections  from  the  Writings  of  Eleven  English  Authors. 

R  Hawthorne's  Selected  Twice- Told  Tales.  N.  Y.  Regents'  Requirements. 
Paper,  20  cents ;  linen,  30  cents. 

S  Irving's  Selected  Essays  from  the  Sketch  Book.  N.  Y.  Regents'  Require 
ments.  (Double  Number,  30  cents;  linen,  40  cents.) 

T  Emerson's  Nature ;  Lowell's  My  Garden  Acquaintance.  N.  Y.  Regents' 
Requirements. 

U  A  Dramatization  of  Longfellow's  Song  of  Hiawatha.  By  FLORENCE  HOL 
BROOK. 

Also,  bound  in  linen:  *2S  cents.  **4and  5,  in  one  vol.,  40  cents;  Iikewise6  and 
31,  ii  and  63,  28  and  36,  29  and  10,  30  and  15,  32  and  133,  39  and  123,  40  and  69, 42 
and  113,55  and  67^57  and  58,  70  and  71,  72  and  94,  103  and  104,  119  and  120,  121 
and  122.  t  Also  in  one  vol.,  40  cents.  $t  i,  4,  and  30  also  in  one  vol.,  50  cents; 
likewise  7,  8,  and  9;  28,  37  and  27  ;  33,  34,  and  35;  64,  65,  and  66.  §  Double  Num 
ber,  paper,  30  cents;  linen,  40  cents.  §§  Triple  Number,  paper,  45  cents;  linen, 
50  cents.  §§§  Quadruple  Number,  paper,  50  cents ;  linen,  60  cents. 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 


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